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LIBRARY 

n  « 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT   OF 

Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALSWORTH. 

Received  October,  1894. 

jr*     /*      4*. 

Accessions  No.S'JftflS^ .      Class  No.H^j'^ 


r\  S62>- 
=M 


T  II  K 


POETICAL    WORKS 


or 


MARY  HOWITT, 

ELIZA    COOK, 


AlfD 


L.  E.  L. 


A     NEW     EDITIOW 


BOSTON : 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  &  CO., 

110  WASHINGTON  STREET. 
1854. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THB  present  volume  is  now  issued,  in  accordance  with 
a  previously  announced  plan,  of  publishing  a  uniform  and 
cheap  edition  of  such  of  the  poets  as  a  discriminating 
public  have  sanctioned  as  standard.  In  this  instance,  as 
in  some  of  the  preceding  volumes,  abridgment  was  found 
necessary,  to  keep  it  within  the  plan  originally  adopted. 
In  performing  this  delicate  work,  the  proprietors  have 
had  such  aid  as  they  think  will  warrant  them  in  saying, 
that,  although  the  complete  poetical  productions  of  these 
celebrated  writers  is  not  comprised  in  this  edition,  yet  it 
contains  all  that  is  material  in  preserving  their  high 
position  as  female  poets.  • 


•TKKBOTYFBD   •¥ 
CHARLKt  W.  COLTO*. 


CONTENTS. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

HYMNS  AND  FIRE-SIDE  VERSES.  PAGE. 

L'Envoi 13 

Marien's  Pilgrimage,  a  Fire-Side  Story 15 

Old  Christmas 87 

The  Twelfth  Hour 90 

The  Blind  Boy  and  his  Sister 91 

EASTER  HYMNS. 

Hymn  I.    The  Two  Marys 95 

HymnIL    The  Angel 96 

Hymnlll.    The  Lord  Jesus 97 

HymnlV.    The  Eleven 99 

The  Poor  Child's  Hymn 100 

The  Old  Friend  and  the  New 101 

Mabel  on  Midsummer  Day,  a  Story  of  the  Olden  Time  ..103 

BIRDS  AND  FLOWERS  AND  OTHER  COUNTRY  THINGS. 

The  Stormy  Peterel .' 112 

The  Poor  Man's  Garden 114 

The  Oak-Tree 118 

Morning  Thoughts 120 

The  Use  of  Flowers 122 

Sunshine 123 

The  Child  and  the  Flowers 125 

Childhood 126 

L'Envoi 130 

1* 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 

The  Coot 131 

The  Eagle 133 

The  Garden 135 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly.    An  Apologue 138 

TALES  IN  VERSE. 

Andrew  Lee,  the  Fisher  Boy 141 

The  Wanderer's  Return 144 

Ellen  More 150 

A  Swinging  Song 153 

The  Young  Mourner 154 

The  Soldier's  Story 156 

The  Child's  Lament 161 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Carrion  Crow 164 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 

The  Sale  of  the  Pet  Lamb  of  the  Cottage 168 

America.    A  Story  of  the  Indian  "War 172 

Mourning  on  Earth 183 

Rejoicing  in  Heaven 184 

COOK'S  POEMS. 
Melaia 189 

A  Romaunt.    Tracy  de  Vor e  and  Hubert  Gray 219 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

TheOldArm-Chair 233 

Song  of  the  Rushlight 234 

The  Mother  who  has  a  Child  at  Sea 237 

Oh  !  dear  to  Memory  are  those  Hours 239 

Spring 241 

Sailing  Song ........243 

The  Gipsy's  Tent 244 

The  Free 245 

Winter 246 

Snow 248 

The  Gipsy  Child 249 

The  Quiet  Eye ...250 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE. 

Old  Dobbin.-. 252 

The  old  Farm-Gate 255 

Buttercups  and  Daisies 257 

The  Idiot  Born 259 

The  Poet 260 

The  Song  of  Marion 263 

The  Sexton 264 

Nature's  Gentleman 267 

The  Sabbath  Bell 270 

Hang  up  his  Harp ;  He'll  Wake  no  more 271 

To  a  Favorite  Pony 272 

ABC 275 

A  Love  Song 276 

Cupid's  Arrow 278 

Night 279 

Away  from  the  Revel 281 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother 282 

There's  a  Star  in  the  West 284 

The  Loved  One  was  not  there 285 

The  Mourners 286 

The  King  of  the  Wind 289 

The  Wreaths 290 

OldPincher 292 

Song  of  the  Blind  Ona 296 

The  Old  Water-Mill 297 

Rover's  Song 299 

Kings 301 

To  Fancy 303 

The  Sacrilegious  Gamesters .' 304 

Winter 311 

Those  we  Love 312 

Song  of  the  Sea-Gulls 313 

Song  of  the  Mariners 315 

Love 317 

The  Boat-Cloak 319 

Through  the  Waters 320 

A  Home  in  the  Heart 322 

The  Smuggler  Boy 323 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Homes  of  the  Dead « 324 

My  Birthday 326 

Prayer 328 

Sonnet,  written  at  the  Couch  of  a  Dying  Parent 330 

Song  of  the  Imprisoned  Bird 331 

The  Heart— the  Heart 333 

GallaBrae 334 

The  King's  Old  Hall 335 

The  Willow-Tree 336 

Song  of  the  Sun 337 

While  the  Christmas  Log  is  Burning 339 

The  Acorn 340 

Fire 341 

A  Summer  Sketch 342 

Song  of  Old  Time 345 

The  Bonnie  Scot 346 

The  Old  Cloak 347 

Washington 348 

The  Last  Good-Bye 350 

The  Old  Barn 352 

Song  of  the  Dying  Old  Man  to  his  Young  Wife 356 

The  Indian  Hunter 360 

The  Poor  Man's  Friend 361 

Harvest  Song 362 

Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Poverty 364 

The  Old  Mill-Stream 368 

Old  Story  Books.. 372 

LAN-DON'S  POEMS. 
MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Rosalie 379 

The  Bayadere.     An  Indian  Tale 389 

Love,  Hope,  and  Beauty 400 

Lines  of  Life 401 

New  Year's  Eve 405 

Home 407 

The  Battle-Field 408 

Manmadin,  the  Indian  Cupid,  floating  down  the  Ganges.. 410 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE. 

The  Female  Convict 412 

The  Oak... 415 

The  Soldier's  Grave 416 

Song  of  the  Hunter's  Bride -417 

The  Violet 419 

Love 420 

The  Soldier's  Funeral 421 

Lines  written  under  the  Picture  of  a  Girl  burning  a  Love- 
Letter 422 

The  Factory 423 

When  should  Lovers  breathe  their  Vows  ? 426 

The  Lost  Star 427 

Glencoe 429 

The  Emerald  Ring.    A  Superstition 432 

TheGrayCross 433 

The  Change 434 

The  Danish  Warrior's  Death-Song 435 

The  Wreck 437 

The  Little  Shroud 439 

The  Frozen  Ship 441 

Revenge 443 

The  Nameless  Grave 445 

Can  You  forget  Me? 447 

The  Wreath 448 

The  Indian  Girl 450 

The  Snowdrop 454 

Kalendria;  a  Port  in  Cilicia 455 

Infanticide  in  Madagascar • ••  458 

Alexander  and  Philip 460 

The  Castle  of  Chillon 462 

The  River  Wear 463 

Death  of  Louis  of  Bourbon,  Bishop  of  Liege 465 

Etty's  Rover 466 

Disenchantment 468 

The  Hindoo  Girl's  Song 470 

Sassoor  in  the  Deccan 471 

The  Deserter 474 

Coniston  Water...  , 477 


10  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Expectation 478 

Warning 479 

The  Visionary 483 

The  Coquette 486 

The  Orphan  Ballad  Singers 489 

The  Nizain's  Daughter 491 

The  Lake  of  Como 493 

The  Neglected  One 495 

The  Church  at  Polignac 498 

The  Pirate's  Song 500 

The  Knight  of  Malta 501 

Caldron  Snout,  Westmoreland 502 

Derwent  Water 504 

The  Widow's  Mite 505 

Hebe 506 

Cottage  Courtship 508 

The  Phantom 609 

A  Legend  of  Teignmouth 511 

The  City  Churchyard 614 

The  Unknown  Grave 516 

The  Missionary 517 

The  Wishing  Gate 520 

The  Shepherd  Boy 521 

The  Woodland  Brook 522 

The  Dancing  Girl 523 

Dirge 524 

Scenes  in  London ................525 

The  Altered  River 627 

The  Forgotten  One 529 

The  Legacy  of  the  Lute 532 

The  City  of  the  Dead 534 

The  Ionian  Captive 536 

The  Cedars  of  Lebanon 537 

Death  and  the  Youth 539 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


or 


MART    HOWITT 


A     HEW      EDITIOW 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,   &  CO., 

110  WASHINGTON  STRBBT. 
1854. 


HYMNS  AND  EIRE-SIDE  VERSES 


L'ENVOI. 

I  HAVE  indited  thee  with  care  and  love, 
My  little  book  ;  and  now  I  send  thee  forth 

On  a  good  mission  like  the  gentle  dove, 

Bearing  glad  tidings  with  thee  o'er  the  earth. 

Thou  wasi  not  meant  for  riot  and  for  jest, 
Dear  little  book,  all  simple  as  thou  art ; 

But  in  sweet  homes  to  be  a  loving  guest ; 
And  find  a  place  in  many  a  guileless  heart 

Have  not  a  fear !  I  know  that  thou  wilt  find 
Thy  journey  pleasant  as  a  path  of  flowers, 

For  pure  and  youthful  hearts  are  ever  kind, 
Glad  to  be  pleased  with  labor  such  as  ours. 

Sit  down  with  little  children  by  the  way, 

And  tell  them  of  sweet  Marien,  how  she  went 

Over  the  dreary  world  from  day  to  day, 
On  Christian  works  of  love,  like  thee,  intent 

Tell  them  of  Him  who  framed  the  sea,  the  sky ; 

The  glorious  earth  and  all  that  dwell  therein ; 
And  of  that  Holy  One  made  strong  to  die, 

Sinless  himself,  to  save  the  world  from  sin. 


14  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

And  thou  hast  many  a  tale  of  wonder  planned 
With  various  art,  to  make  thy  spirit  wise 

These  have  I  given  thee  that  thou  may'st  command 
Glad  smiles  at  will,  and  pitying  tears  and  sighs. 

For  thus,  young,  generous  spirits  would  be  won  ; 

And  I  have  gifted  thee  to  win  them  best ; 
Now  go  thou  forth  undaunted,  gentle  one, 

And  trust  thy  cause  to  every  youthful  breast 

Go  forth,  and  have  thou  neither  fear  nor  shame ; 

Many  shall  be  thy  friends,  thy  foes  be  few ; 
And  greet  thou  those  who  love  thee  in  my  name, 

Yea,  greet  them  warmly !    Little  book,  adieu ! 


(15) 


MARIE  N'S     PILGRIMAGE. 

A   FIRE-SIDE  STORY. 

CHRISTIANITY,  like  a  child,  goes  wandering  over  the 
world.  Fearless  in  its  innocence,  it  is  not  abashed 
before  princes,  nor  confounded  by  the  wisdom  of  syn 
ods.  Before  it  the  blood-stained  warrior  sheathes  his 
sword,  and  plucks  the  laurel  from  his  brow;  —  the 
midnight  murderer  turns  from  his  purpose,  and,  like 
the  heart-smitten  disciple,  goes  out  and  weeps  bitterly. 
It  brings  liberty  to  the  captive,  joy  to  the  mourner, 
freedom  to  the  slave,  repentance  and  forgiveness  to  the 
sinner,  hope  to  the  faint-hearted,  and  assurance  to  the 
dying. 

It  enters  the  huts  of  poor  men,  and  sits  down  with 
them  and  their  children ;  it  makes  them  contented  in 
the  midst  of  privations,  and  leaves  behind  an  ever 
lasting  blessing.  It  walks  through  great  cities,  amid 
all  their  pomp  and  splendor,  their  unimaginable  pride, 
and  their  unutterable  misery,  a  purifying,  ennobling, 
correcting,  and  redeeming  angel. 

It  is  alike  the  beautiful  companion  of  childhood  and 
the  comfortable  associate  of  age.  It  ennobles  the 
noble ;  gives  wisdom  to  the  wise,  and  new  grace  to  the 
lovely.  The  patriot,  the  priest,  and  the  eloquent  rnan, 
all  derive  their  sublime  power  from  its  influence. 

Thanks  be  to  the  Eternal  Father,  who  has  made  us 
one  with  Him,  through  the  benign  Spirit  of  Christianity ' 


16  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 


PART  I. 

THROUGH  the  wide  world  went  Marien, 

On  a  holy  mission  sent, 
A  little  child  of  tender  years, 

Throughout  the  world  she  went 

And  ever,  as  she  went  along, 

Sweet  flowers  sprang  'neath  her  feet 
All  flowers  that  were  most  beautiful, 

Of  virtues  strong  and  sweet 

And  ever,  as  she  went  along, 
The  desert  beasts  grew  tame 

And  man,  the  savage,  dyed  with  blood. 
The  merciful  became. 

Now,  if  you  will  attend  to  me, 

I  will,  in  order,  tell 
The  history  of  this  little  child, 

And  what  to  her  befell. 

No  friend  at  all  had  Marien, 

And  at  the  break  of  day, 
In  a  lonesome  place  within  the  world, 

In  quiet  thought  she  lay. 

The  stars  were  lost  in  coming  morn, 
The  moon  was  pale  and  dim, 

And  the  golden  sun  was  rising 
Over  the  ocean's  rim. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  17 

With  upturned  eye  lay  Marien ;  — 

"  And  I  am  alone,"  said  she, 
"  Though  the  blackbird  and  the  nightingale 

Sing  in  the  forest-tree  : 

"  Though  the  weak  woodland  creatures 

Come  to  me  when  I  call, 
And  eat  their  food  from  out  my  hand ; 

And  I  am  loved  by  all : 

"  Though  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars  come  out, 

And  flowers  of  fairest  grace, 
And  whate'er  God  made  beautiful, 

Are  with  me  in  this  place  : 

"  Yet  I  am  all  alone,  alone, 

Alone  both  night  and  day  ! 
So  I  will  forth  into  the  world, 

And  do  what  good  I  may  : 

"  For  many  a  heart  is  sorrowful, 

And  I  that  heart  may  cheer ;  — 
And  many  a  weary  captive  pines 

In  dungeons  dark  and  drear ;  — 
And  I  the  iron  bonds  may  loose,  -  - 

Then  why  abide  I  here  ? 

"  And  many  a  spirit  dark  with  crime 

Yet  longeth  to  repent ; 
And  many  a  grievous  wrong  is  done 

To  the  weak  and  innocent ;  — 
And  I  may  do  the  injured  right, 

May  save  the  penitent ! 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Up,  I  will  forth  into  the  world ! " 

And,  thus  as  she  did  say, 
Sweet  Marien  from  the  ground  rose  up, 

And  went  forth  on  her  way. 

Through  the  wood  went  Marien, 
The  thick  wood  and  the  green  ! 

And  not  far  had  she  traveled,  ere 
A  cruel  sight  was  seen. 

Under  the  green  and  leafy  boughs 
Where  singing  birds  were  set ; 

At  strife  about  their  heritage, 
Two  ruffian  brothers  met. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  of  our  father's  land," 

The  elder  said,  "  have  part!" 
The  younger  brother  spoke  no  word, 

But  stabbed  him  to  the  heart- 
Then  deep  into  the  forest  dark 

With  desperate  speed  he  ran, 
And  gentle  Marien  stood  beside 

The  bleeding,  murdered  man. 

With  pitying  tears  that  would  not  cease, 
She  washed  his  wounded  side, 

And  prayed  him  to  have  faith  in  Him 
Who  for  the  sinner  died. 

But  no  sign  made  the  murdered  man, 
There  stiff  in  death  he  lay  ;  — 

And  Marien  through  the  forest  wild 
Went  mourning  on  her  way. 


19 

Ere  long,  as  she  went  wandering  on, 

She  came  to  where  there  sat, 
With  folded  arms  upon  her  breast, 

A  woman  desolate. 

Pale  was  she  as  the  marble  stone, 

And  steadfast  was  her  eye  ; 
She  sat  enchained,  as  in  a  trance, 

By  her  great  misery. 

"  What  ails  thee,  mother  ?  "  Marien  said, 
•  In  a  gentle  voice  and  sweet ; 
«  What  aileth  thee,  my  mother  ?  " 
And  knelt  down  at  her  feet. 

i 

"  What  aileth  thee,  my  mother  ?  " 

Kind  Marien  still  did  say  ; 
And  those  two  words,  my  mother, 

To  the  lone  heart  found  their  way. 

As  one  who  wakeneth  in  amaze, 

She  quickly  raised  her  head ;  — 
And,  "Who  is't  calls  me  mother?  " 

Said  she,  "  my  child  is  dead !  " 

"  He  was  the  last  of  seven  sons  — 

He  is  dead  —  I  have  none  other ;  — 
This  is  the  day  they  bury  him  ;  — 

Who  is  it  calls  me  mother  ? '' 

"  'Tis  I,"  said  gentle  Marien, 

"  Dear  soul,  be  comforted !  " 
But  the  woman  only  wrung  her  hands, 

Arid  cried,  "  My  son  is  dead  1  v 


20  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Be  comforted,"  said  Marien, 
And  then  she  sweetly  spake 

Of  Jesus  Christ,  and  how  he  came 
The  sting  from  death  to  take. 

She  told  of  all  his  life-long  love, 

His  soul  by  suffering  tried : 
And  how  at  last  his  mother  stood 

To  see  him  crucified. 

Of  the  disciples'  broken  hearts 
She  told,  of  pangs  and  pain ; 

Of  Mary  at  the  sepulchre, 
And  Christ  arisen  again. 

•*  Then  sorrow  not,"  she  said,  "  as  though 

Thou  wert  of  all  bereft  ; 
For  still,  though  they  beloved  are  not, 

This  blessed  faith  is  left.  — 

"  That  when  thy  dream  of  life  is  o'er, 
Thou  shalt  embrace  thy  seven, 

More  beautiful  than  earthly  sons. 
With  our  dear  Lord  in  heaven ! " 

Down  on  her  knees  the  woman  fell, 
And  "  blessed  be  God,"  said  she, 

"  Who  in  my  sorest  need  hath  sent 
This  comforter  to  me  ! " 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 


PART  II. 

Now  Marien  in  the  woman's  house 
Abode  a  little  space, 

And  comfort  to  the  mother  came ; 
And  a  dear  daughter's  place 

Had  Marien  in  the  woman's  heart, 

Doing  the  while  a  daughter's  part. 

But  now  'twas  time  that  she  must  go ; 

For  Marien's  duty  was  not  there, 
Now  grief  was  past,  and  wo  was  done ; 
So,  with  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

She  rose  up  forth  to  fare. 

"  Nay,  bide  with  me,"  the  woman  said, 

Or,  if  as  thou  dost  say, 
Duty  forbids  that  this  may  be, 
I  a  day's  journey  go  with  thee, 

To  speed  thee  on  the  way." 

So  forth  the  loving  pair  set  out, 

The  woman  and  the  child  ; 
And  first  they  crossed  the  desert  heath, 

And  then  the  mountains  wild. 

And  in  the  woman's  arms  she  lay, 

That  night  within  the  forest  hoar, 
And  the  next  morn,  with  loving  heart, 
They  said  farewell,  as  those  who  part 
To  meet  on  earth  no  more. 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

Upon  her  way  went  Marien, 

From  morn  till  set  of  day, 
And  the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  word, 

Upon  her  spirit  lay, 
And  ofttimes  she  sang  aloud 

As  she  went  on  her  way. 

The  joyfulest  song  sang  Marien 
That  e'er  left  human  tongue  ; 

The  very  birds  were  mute,  to  hear 
The  holy  words  she  sung. 

But  now  the  darksome  night  came  on, 

And  Marien  lay  her  down 
Within  a  little  way-side  cave, 

On  mosses  green  and  brown, 

And  in  the  deepest  hush  of  night 

Rude  robbers  entered  in  ; 
And  first  they  ate  and  drank,  then  rose 

To  do  a  deed  of  sin. 

For  with  them  was  a  feeble  man, 
Whom  they  had  robbed,  and  they 

Here  came  to  foully  murder  him, 
And  hide  him  from  the  day. 

Up  from  her  bed  sprang  Marien, 
With  heavenly  power  endued  ; 

And  in  her  glorious  innocence, 
Stood  'mong  the  robbers  rude. 

"  Ye  shall  not  take  the  life  of  man ! w 
Spake  Marien  low  and  sweet ; 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

*  For  this  will  God  take  strict  account, 
Before  his  judgment-seat ! " 

Out  from  the  cave  the  robbers  fled, 

For  they  believed  there  stood 
A  spirit  stern  and  beautiful, 

Nor  aught  of  flesh  and  blood. 

And  two  from  out  the  robber-band 

Thenceforward  did  repent, 
And  lived  two  humble  Christian  men, 

On  righteous  deeds  intent. 

When  from  the  cave  the  robber-band 

Had  fled,  the  aged  man 
Rose  from  the  floor  where  he  was  laid, 

And  marveling  much,  began.  — 

"  Who  art  thou  child  ?  and  those  few  word* 
Of  might  which  thou  hast  spoken, 

What  may  they  be  ?    My  foes  have  fled  — 
And  lo  !  my  bonds  are  broken ; 

At  thy  few  words  my  foes  have  fled, 
My  rigid  bonds  have  broken !  " 

Then  Marien  'gan  to  tell  him  how 
Through  her  God's  power  had  wrought  • 

And  him  from  peril,  nigh  to  death, 
Thus  wondrously  had  brought 

She  told  him  how  holy  Daniel's  faith 

The  caged  beasts  disarmed ; 
How  the  three  righteous  children  walked 

Through  raging  fire  unharmed. 


24  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

She  told  how  Peter,  bound  with  chains, 

Lay  in  the  prison-ward, 
How  God's  good  angel  freed  him  straight, 
And  the  strong  prison's  iron  gate 

Oped  of  its  own  accord. 

"  God  knows  our  wants,"  said  Marien, 

"  And  in  our  sorest  need, 
Puts  forth  his  arm  to  rescue  us, 
For  he  is  merciful,  and  thus 

It  is  that  thou  art  freed." 

"  Let  us  go  hence !  "  the  old  man  said, 

And  o'er  the  forest  sod, 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  quiet  steps, 

Went  forward,  praising  God. 

Ere  noontide,  to  a  forest  grange 
They  came,  a  sylvan  place, 

Where  trooped,  no  longer  fearing  man, 
The  forest's  native  race, 

The  white  doe  and  the  antlered  stag, 
And  every  beast  of  chase. 

'Twas  joy  to  see  them  drawing  near 

The  old  man  as  he  came  ; 
And  this  he  stroked,  and  that  he  called 

By  some  familiar  name. 

'Twas  joy  unto  the  little  child 
This  pleasant  place  to  see  ; 

"  This  is  my  home,"  he  said,  "  and  here 
Thou  shalt  abide  with  me." 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  I  have  no  child  to  be  mine  heir, 

And  I  am  growing  old  ;  — 
Thou  shalt  be  heir  to  all  my  lands, 

And  heir  of  all  my  gold. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  comfort  to  mine  age, 

And  here  within  this  wood, 
'Mongst  faithful,  gentle  things,  shalt  thou 

Grow  up  to  womanhood  ! " 

There  dwelt  the  lovely  Marien, 

Within  the  forest  wild; 
And  she  unto  the  lone  old  man 

Was  dearer  than  a  child. 

There  dwelt  the  lovely  Marien, 
Yet  not  long  dwelt  she  there ;  — 

The  old  man  died ;  —  and  then  came  forth 
A  kinsman  for  the  heir. 

A  lean  and  rugged  man  of  pelf. 

In  wickedness  grown  old  ; 
From  some  vile  city-den  he  came, 

And  seized  upon  the  gold ;  — 
He  slew  the  tamed  forest-beasts,  — 

The  forest-grange  he  sold. 

And  with  hard  speeches,  coarse  and  rude, 

Away  the  child  he  sent ; 
Meek  Marien  answered  not  a  word, 

But  through  the  forest  went. 


25  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 


PART  IH. 

THROUGH  the  wild  wood  went  Marien, 

For  many  a  weary  day ; 
Her  food  the  forest-fruits,  and  on 

The  forest-turf  she  lay. 

The  wildern  wood  was  skirted 
By  moorlands  dry  and  brown ; 

And  after  them  came  Marien 
Into  a  little  town. 

At  entrance  of  the  little  town 

A  cross  stood  by  the  way  ; 
A  rude  stone  cross,  and  there  she  knelt 

A  little  prayer  to  say. 

Then  on  the  stone  steps  sate  her  down ; 

And  soon  beside  her  crept, 
A  pale  child  with  a  clasped  book, 

And  all  the  while  he  wept. 

"  Why  weep  you  child,"  asked  Marien 
"  What  troubleth  you  so  sore  ?  " 

At  these  words  spoken  tenderly, 
The  child  wept  more  and  more. 

"  I  have  not  heard,"  at  length  he  said, 
"  Kind  words  this  many  a  year ; 

My  mother  is  dead  —  and  my  father 
Is  a  hard  man  and  severe. 


POEMS. 

"  I  sit  in  corners  of  the  house 
Where  none  can  see  me  weep  ; 

And  in  the  quiet  of  the  day, 
'Tis  here  I  often  creep. 

"  The  kid  leaps  by  his  mother's  side, 
The  singing  birds  are  glad  : 

But  when  I  play  me  in  the  sun, 
My  heart  is  ever  sad. 

"  They  say  this  blessed  book  can  heal 

All  trouble,  and  therefore 
All  day  I  keep  it  in  my  sight; 
I  lay  it  'neath  my  head  at  night, 
But  it  doth  bring  no  cure  to  me  :  — 
I  know  not  what  the  cause  may  be, 

For  I  of  learning  have  no  store  !  w 

Thereat,  like  to  a  broken  flower, 
The  child  drooped  down  his  head  ; 

Then  Marien  took  the  clasped  book, 
And  of  the  Saviour  read. 

She  read  of  him,  the  humble  child 

Of  poverty  and  scorn  ; 
How  holy  angels  sang  for  him 

The  night  that  he  was  born. 

How  blessed  angels  came  from  heaven 
To  hail  the  Christmas  night, 

And  shepherd  people  with  their  flocks 
Beheld  the  glorious  sight. 


27 


HOWITT'S  POEMS 

Then  read  she  how,  a  growing  youth, 

His  parents  he  obeyed, 
And  served,  with  unrepining  will, 

St.  Joseph  at  his  trade. 

Then  how  he  grew  to  man's  estate, 

And  wandered  up  and  down, 
Preaching  upon  the  lone  sea-side, 

And  in  the  busy  town. 

Of  all  his  tenderness,  his  love, 

Page  after  page  she  read ; 
How  he  made  whole  the  sick,  the  maimed, 

And  how  he  raised  the  dead. 

And  how  he  loved  the  children  small, 

Even  of  low  degree ; 
And  how  he  blessed  them  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  set  them  on  his  knee. 

When  this  the  little  child  had  heard, 

He  spoke  in  accents  low, 
"  Would  that  I  had  been  one  with  them 

To  have  been  blessed  so  !  " 

"  Thou  shalt  be  blessed,  gentle  one !  " 

Said  Marien  kind  and  mild, 
"  Christ,  the  Great  Comforter,  doth  bless 

Thee,  even  now,  poor  child  ! " 

So  conversed  they  of  holy  things 

Until  the  closing  day  ; 
Then  Marien  and  the  little  child 

Rose  up  to  go  their  way. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

As  to  the  town  they  came,  they  passed 

An  ancient  church  ;  and  "  here 
Let  us  go  in  !  "  the  pale  child  said, 
"  For  the  organ  pealeth  over  head, 
And  that  sweet  strain  of  holy  sound 
Like  a  heavenly  vesture  wraps  me  round, 
And  my  heavy  heart  doth  cheer." 

So  Marien  and  the  little  child 

Into  the  church  they  stole  ; 
And  many  voices  rich  and  soft 
Rose  upward  from  the  organ  loft, 
And  the  majestic  instrument 
Pealed  to  an  anthem  that  was  sent 
To  soothe  a  troubled  soul. 

Anon  the  voices  died  away, 

The  pealing  organ  ceased, 
And  through  the  church's  ancient  door 

Passed  chorister  and  priest. 

And  Marien  and  the  little  child 

Went  forward  hand  in  hand 
Adown  the  chancel  aisle,  and  then 

At  once  they  made  a  stand. 

Over  the  altar  hung  a  piece 

With  holy  influence  fraught, 
A  work  divine  of  wondrous  skill 

By  some  old  painter  wrought. 

The  gracious  Saviour  breathing  love, 

Was  there  like  life  expressed, 
And  round  his  knees  the  children  small 

Were  thronging  to  be  blessed. 
3* 


30  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Down  dropped  the  child  upon  his  knees, 

And  weeping,  tenderly 
Cried  "  bless  me,  also,  poor  and  weak, 

Or  let  me  go  to  thee  ! " 

Anon  his  little  head  dropped  low, 
And  his  white  lips  'gan  to  say, 

"  Oh  kiss  me  gentle  one,  for  now 
Even  I  am  called  away  — 

The  blessed  mother's  voice  I  hear, 
It  calleth  me  away ! " 

So  died  the  child ;  —  and  Marien  laid 
His  meek  arms  on  his  breast, 

With  the  clasped  book  between  his  hands  - 
Thus  God  had  given  him  rest ! 

And  Marien,  weeping  holy  tears, 

Sate  down  beside  the  dead, 
And  slept  that  night  within  the  church, 

As  in  a  kingly  bed. 

Scarce  from  the  church  had  Marien  passed, 

When  came  the  father  there, 
As  was  his  wont,  though  fierce  and  bad, 

To  say  a  morning  prayer ! 

Not  seven  paces  had  he  gone, 
When,  heart-struck,  he  surveyed 

Before  his  feet,  that  little  child, 
In  his  dead  beauty,  laid. 

At  once  as  by  a  lightning  stroke 
His  softened  soul  was  torn 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  31 

With  a  deep  sense  of  all  the  wrong 
That  little  child  had  borne. 

And  then  came  back  the  timid  voice, 

The  footstep  faint  and  low, 
The  many  little  arts  to  please, 

The  look  of  hopeless  wo, 
And  many  a  shuddering  memory 

Of  harsh  rebuke  and  blow. 

No  prayer  of  self-approving  words, 

As  was  his  wont,  he  said, 
But  humbled,  weeping,  self-condemned, 

He  stood  before  the  dead. 


PART  IV. 

TEN  long  days'  travel  Marien  went, 
O'er  woodland  and  o'er  wold, 

Teaching  and  preaching  by  the  way, 
Like  Jesus  Christ  of  old. 

Sometimes  within  the  baron's  hall 

A  lodging  she  would  find, 
And  never  Avent  she  from  the  door 

But  blessings  staid  behind  ; 
Proud  foes  forgiven,  revenge  withheld. 

And  plenteous  peace  of  mind. 


32  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

With  shepherd  people  on  the  hills  ; 

With  toiling  peasant  men 
She  sate ;  with  women  dwelling  lone, 

On  mountain  or  in  glen. 

By  wayside  wells  she  sate  her  down, 

With  pilgrims  old  and  bent ; 
Or,  hand  in  hand,  with  children  small, 

To  the  village  school  she  went 

She  made  them  spare  the  singing  birds 

All  in  their  leafy  bowers  ; 
She  made  them  love  all  living  things ; 

And  praise  God  for  the  flowers. 

But  now  she  came  to  where  there  raged 

Wild  war  throughout  the  land  ; 
She  heard  the  vexed  people's  cry ; 
She  saw  the  ravaged  corn-fields  lie  ; 
The  hamlets  smoking  to  the  sky ; 
And  everywhere  careering  by 

The  spoiler's  savage  band. 

All  hearts  were  changed.     Like  ravening  wolvea 

Men  preyed  upon  each  other ; 
Dead  children  lay  on  the  bloody  mould ; 
And  pitiless  had  grown,  and  cold, 

The  heart  of  many  a  mother. 

Wild  shouts  and  horrid  shrieks  around 

Filled  all  the  air ;  the  earth 
Reeked  with  the  blood  that  had  been  spilt ; 

And  man  made  mockery  and  mirth 
Of  agony  and  mortal  wo  :  — 
Yet  through  all  this  did  Marien  go. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  33 

Outraged  of  heart,  the  child  went  on, 

Weeping  upon  her  way  ; 
And  now  she  soothed  a  dying  wretcb, 
Then  for  another  ran  to  fetch 

Water ;  and  every  day 
Did  deeds  of  mercy  good  and  mild :  — 
Thus  journeyed  on  the  pitying  child. 
\ 

On  went  she,  —  and  as  she  went  on, 

Men  grew  ashamed  of  blood, 
So  beautiful  did  mercy  seem ; 

And  the  wild  soldier  rude 
Slunk  back  as  slinks  a  noisome  beast ; 

And  to  their  homes  once  more 
Came  mothers  with  their  little  ones  ; 

And  old  men,  weak  and  hoar, 
Sate  in  the  sun  as  they  had  wont, 

Unfearing  at  the  door. 

On  went  the  child,  —  and  as  she  went, 

Within  the  Baron's  hall, 
Were  hung  up  helm,  and  mail,  and  sword, 

To  rust  upon  the  wall. 

On  went  she,  —  and  the  poets  sung 

No  longer  war's  acclaim, 
But  holy  hymns  of  love  and  joy, 

To  hail  her  as  she  came. 

On  went  she,  like  an  angel  good ; 

With  bounding  steps  she  went, 
Day  after  day,  until  she  came 

To  the  great  Conqueror's  tent 


34  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

There  sat  he,  a  strong  man  of  blood, 
Steel-mailed  and  scarfed  with  blue. 

Poring  o'er  charts  of  distant  lands, 
For  new  lands  to  subdue. 

Beside  him  stood  the  gentle  child  ; 

And  now  he  traced  with  care, 
Measuring  from  river  unto  sea, 

A  fertile  region  fair. 

"  'Tis  a  good  land,"  said  Marien, 

"  From  river  unto  sea ; 
And  there  a  quiet  people  dwell, 

Who  never  heard  of  thee. 

"  They  feed  their  flocks  and  herds  in  peace ; 

The  fruitful  vine  they  till ; 
The  quiet'hornes  their  fathers  built, 

They  and  their  children  fill. 

"  Even  now  their  happy  children's  joy 

Thee  and  thy  will  condemn ; 
Wherefore  should'st  thou  possess  that  land  ? 

God  gave  it  unto  them  !  " 

Into  her  face  the  proud  man  looked, 

Amazed  at  what  he  heard ; 
Then  turned  unto  his  charts  again, 

And  answered  never  a  word. 

Another  land  among  the  hills 

He  measured  with  his  eye ; 
"  'Tis  a  stern  land,"  said  Marien 

"  A  land  of  liberty  ! 


HOWITT  S    POEMS. 

a  There  fled  the  Christians  in  old  time, 
And  built  their  churches  there : 

And  bells,  upon  the  sabbath  morn, 
Call  all  that  land  to  prayer. 

"  Would'st  thou  God's  people  tribulate' 

A  cursed  thing  it  were 
To  make  that  Christian  land  of  love 

A  bloody  sepulchre  ! " 
The  proud  man  turned  him  round  about, 

And  fiercely  gazed  at  her. 

"  Rivers  of  blood  have  flowed  for  thee !  * 

Unblenching  Marien  said, 
"  And  many  a  Christian  land  hast  thou 

With  Christian  blood  made  red. 


"  Up,  sin  no  more  !  'Tis  coming  now, 
The  day  thou  canst  not  flee, 

When  all  the  thousands  thou  hast  slain 
God  will  require  of  thee  ! 


a  Thou  man  of  blood,  repent,  repent, 

Repent  whilst  yet  you  may, 
And  store  up  deeds  of  love  and  peace 

Against  that  awful  day ! " 

% 

Up  from  his  seat  the  Conqueror  rose, 

And  paced  the  uneasy  tent, 
And  ground  his  teeth  and  groaned  aloud, 

As  one  that  doth  repent. 


86  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Forth  from  the  tent  sped  Marien; 

And  many  a  summer's  day 
Throughout  a  blessed  land  of  peace 

She  journeyed  on  her  way. 


PART  V. 

AT  length,  after  long  travel  past, 

She  came,  as  it  grew  late, 
Along  a  beaten  road,  that  led 

To  a  vast  city  gate. 

A  vast  and  populous  city,  where 

Rose  dome,  and  tower,  and  spire, 
And  many  a  gilded  pinnacle, 
Far-seen,  as  the  bright  sunset  fell, 
Like  glittering  points  of  fire. 

A  city  vast  and  populous, 
Whose  thronging  multitude 

Sent  forth  a  sound  afar-off  heard, 
Strong  as  the  ocean-flood. 

A  strong,  deep  sound  of  many  sounds, 
Toil,  pleasure,  pain,  delight, 

And  traffic,  myriad- wheeled,  whose  din 
Ceased  not  by  day  or  night 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  37 

And  through  the  city  gate  a  throng 

Passed  ever,  never  spent ; 
A  busy  mingling  human  tide 

Of  those  who  came  and  went. 


'Twos  a  proud  city  and  a  rich  ; 

A  city  fair  and  old  ; 
Filled  with  the  world's  most  costly  things,  -- • 

Of  precious  stones  and  gold : 
Of  silks,  fine  woods,  and  spiceries ; 

And  all  that's  bought  and  sold. 

Thither  came  homeless  Marien, 

Came  there  as  it  grew  late, 
Foot-sore  and  weary,  friendless,  poor, 

Unto  the  city  gate. 

There  found  her  a  poor  carpenter 

Returning  from  his  trade, 
And  he,  with  pitying  countenance, 

Her  weary  form  surveyed. 

a  Come  ! "  said  he,  "  thou  unto  my  house 

Shalt  go ;  and  of  my  bread, 
And  of  my  cup,  thou  shalt  partake ; 
Shalt  bide  with  me  !  "  and  as  he  spake, 

Her  weary  steps  he  led. 

Unto  an  humble  place  that  stood 

'Mong  dwellings  of  the  poor 
He  brought  her ;  bade  her  welcome  thrice 

Unto  his  lowly  door. 


38  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

The  good-wife  met  her  with  like  cheer : 
"  And  though  our  fare  is  scant, 

Fear  not,"  she  said,  "  whilst  we  have  food, 
It  is  not  thou  shalt  want ! " 

So  dwelt  she  with  this  humble  pair 
In  the  great  city,  cherished  so, 

As  parents  cherish  then-  first-born  • 
Nor  would  they  let  her  go. 

Thus  for  a  year  she  dwelt  with  them ; 

And  that  while  their  abode 
Was  blessed  exceedingly  ;  their  store 

Grew  daily,  weekly,  more  and  more ; 
And  peace  so  multiplied  around, 
The  very  hearth  seemed  holy  ground, 
As  if  once  more  on  earth  was  found 

The  Paradise  of  God. 

'Twas  she  that  blessed  the  bread  they  ate, 
'Twas  she  soothed  all  their  cares ; 

They  knew  not  that  they  entertained 
An  angel  unawares. 

With  simple  hearts  that  had  no  guile 

They  of  the  Saviour  heard ; 
And,  weeping  tears  of  joyful  faith, 

Believed  and  blessed  each  word. 

No  more  they  marveled  how  their  board 
With  plenteous  food  was  spread ; 

Five  barley  loaves  dispensed  by  Christ 
The  famished  thousands  fed. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  39 

With  love  that  would  not  be  repressed, 

Their  kindling  bosoms  burned, 
And  'mong  their  neighbors  poor  they  went, 

To  teach  what  they  had  learned. 

To  teach  how  Christ  unto  the  poor, 

The  sinner  vile,  was  sent ; 
How  Mary  washed  his  feet  with  tears, 
And  wiped  them  with  her  golden  hairs, 

A  weeping  penitent. 

And  how  the  sinful  woman  stood 

Unjudged  before  his  face  ; 
How  the  poor  prodigal  sped  back 

Repentant  to  his  place  ; 

How  to  the  thief  upon  the  cross 

He  said,  thou  art  forgiven, 
And  thou  shalt  be  with  me  this  day 

In  the  paradise  of  heaven. 

So  preached  the  carpenter ;  and  men 

Turned  from  their  evil  ways, 
And  Christian  prayer  was  heard  around, 

And  Christian  hymns  of  praise. 

Strange  seemed  these  things  ;  and  to  the  rich, 

And  to  the  proud,  'twas  told, 
How  many  of  the  meaner  sort 

Lived  like  the  saints  of  old. 

How  holy,  blameless,  were  their  lives ; 
And  how  poor  craftsmen  vile, 


40  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Amid  their  fellows,  tool  in  hand, 
The  gospel  preached  the  while. 

'Twos  told  of  Marien,  how  she  came 
A  wanderer  none  knew  whence  ; 

Friendless  and  poor,  of  mind  mature, 
A  Child  in  innocence  ; 

As  thus  'twas  told,  some  blessed  God, 
But  others  took  offence. 

"  Why,"  said  they,  "  should  this  simple  child, 

These  men  of  low  degree, 
Thus  preach  and  practice  ?  what  new  faith 

Is  there,  or  need  there  be  ? 

"  Bishops  have  taught  a  thousand  years, 

And  learned  men  are  they ; 
These  are  mad  doctrines,  false,  unfit, 

Devised  to  lead  astray." 

Therefore  the  simple  people  were 

To  a  full  synod  brought, 
To  answer  for  their  altered  lives, 

And  for  the  faith  they  taught. 

Much  marveled  all  those  learned  men 

To  see  them  fearless  stand 
Calm,  unabashed ;  with  ready  wit, 

And  language  at  command. 

And  to  their  taunt  of  low  estate. 

They  answered,  "  let  alone 
All  pride  of  rank  ;  Christ  chose  the  poor, 

To  make  his  gospel  knovrn. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  41 

**  And  what  are  we  ?  —  Immortal  souls, 
For  whom  Christ's  blood  was  shed ; 

Children  of  one  great  sire,  with  ye, 

Co-heirs  of  Immortality ; 

Alike  you  both  in  birth  and  death ; 

Alone  our  lot  so  differeth, 

As  God  shall  judge  the  dead ! " 

Then  were  they  questioned  of  old  creeds, 

By  sophistries  perplexed ; 
So  that  their  artless  lore  might  fail, 

Their  simple  souls  be  vexed. 

But  they  were  steadfast  in  the  faith 

As  taught  the  holy  book ; 
And  thence  it  was  adjudged  a  crime 

Upon  its  page  to  look. 

And  the  grave  synod  rose  in  wrath, 

And  they  were  judged  blasphemers  dire, 

And  doomed,  their  daring  heresies 
To  expiate  in  fire. 

4* 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 


PART  VI. 

So  perished,  for  their  faith  in  Christ, 
This  righteous  couple  ;  for  their  foes 

Beseeching  pardon  ;  blessing  God 

That  they  were  reckoned  among  those 

Worthy  to  die  for  Christ,  whose  place 

Is  with  the  Holiest  face  to  face. 

Beside  the  pile  stood  Marien 

Weeping  sad  human  tears, 
Yet  strengthening,  comforting  the  while, 

And  soothing  all  their  fears. 

And  as  she  spoke,  her  countenance 
With  heavenly  lustre  beamed, 

And  all  around  her  youthful  form 
Celestial  beauty  streamed. 

Men  looked  on  her  with  wondering  awe, 

As  on  an  angel's  face, 
And  pity,  and  love,  and  sweet  remorse, 

In  every  heart  had  place. 

Throughout  the  city  rang  the  tale 

Of  this  divinest  child ; 
And  for  her  sake  unto  her  faith 

Many  were  reconciled. 

Unto  the  synod  came  these  things ; 
And  "here  let  her  be  brought, 


HOWITT  S    POEMS. 

To  answer  for  herself,"  they  said, 
"  And  suffer  as  she  ought." 

As  Christ  among  the  doctors  stood, 

So  she  among  these  men, 
Stern,  rugged-browed,  and  deeply  versed 

In  parchment  and  in  pen ; 
Meekly  she  stood ;  when  they  reviled, 

Reviling  not  again. 

Yet  with  sweet  words  and  argument, 

Rather  of  love  than  lore, 
She  pleaded  for  the  faith,  as  ne'er 

Pled  youthful  tongue  before. 

All  were  amazed  who  heard  her  words ; 

And  straightway  spoke  each  one 
Unto  his  neighbor,  "  Through  this  child 

May  mighty  things  be  done  !  " 

Then  threatening  words  anon  grew  soft, 
"  And  thou  with  us  shalt  go," 

They  said,  "  and  with  the  poor  and  vile 
No  longer  suffer  wo. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  clothed  in  purple  robes, 

In  gold  and  linen  fine  ; 
Shalt  eat  the  daintiest  food  ;  shalt  drink 

The  spirit-gladdening  wine. 

"  And  with  us  in  proud  palaces, 

A  crowned  queen  shalt  be  ; 
Leave  but  these  men,  for  they  are  poor, 

And  can  do  naught  for  thee  ! 


44 


"  Behold  the  stake  at  which  they  burn  — 

The  iron  rack  behold  — 
Are  these  the  men  to  make  thee  rich 

With  silver  and  with  gold. 

"  Come  with  us,  glorious  Manen, 

And  in  our  places  high, 
We  will  exalt  thee  as  a  queen, 

Will  deck  thee  royally  !  " 

"  Nay,"  said  sweet  Marien,  "  as  a  queen 

It  is  not  I  may  bide  ; 
I  am  not  won  with  power  nor  gold, 

Nor  aught  of  human  pride. 

"  Who  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
Will  clothe  me,  even  as  they ; 

Who  hears  the  ravens  when  they  cry, 
Will  feed  me  day  by  day  !  " 

But  still  the  tempters  kept  with  her ; 

And  "  Come  away,"  they  said, 
And  she  unto  a  sumptuous  dome 

With  royal  pomp  was  led. 

They  showed  her  all  that  palace  proud ; 

They  showed  her  store  of  gold ; 
They  told  her  of  a  hundred  realms, 

And  wealth  a  hundred-fold. 

«  And  all  this  shall  be  thine,"  they  said, 
"  All  this  be  thine,  and  more, 

So  thou  wilt  bind  thyself  to  us, 
And  leave  the  weak  and  poor ! 


45 

"  Thou  that  art  weak  and  poor  thyself, 

A  crowned  queen  shalt  be  !  " 
Said  Marien,  "  In  the  wilderness 

The  Tempter  came,  and  he 
Offered  to  Jesus  Christ  such  gifts 

As  now  ye  offer  me  ! " 

Those  rugged  brows  grew  dark ;  "  Come  now 

With  us,"  they  fiercely  said, 
"  And  see  what  never  daylight  saw, 

The  halls  of  dole  and  dread ! " 

Then  unto  chambers  hidden,  vast, 

Mysterious,  far  from  view, 
They  led  her ;  there  was  set  the  rack, 

The  knotted  cord,  the  screw, 
And  many  a  horrid  instrument, 

Whose  dark  ensanguined  hue 
Told  of  their  purpose ;  "  These,"  said  they, 

"  Many  strange  wonders  do  ! 

"  Look  well ;  could'st  thou  endure  these  thingi  ? 

Strong  men  have  died  ere  now 
Under  their  torment ;  men  were  they, 

A  little  child  art  thou  ! " 

Then  Marien  meekly  answered,  "  What 

God  suffereth  you  to  dare, 
He,  to  whom  darkness  is  as  light, 

Will  strengthen  me  to  bear ! " 

"  Come  onward  yet,"  they  said ;  and  down 

Damp,  broken  stairs  they  went ; 
Down,  down  to  hidden  vaults  of  stone, 

Through  vapors  pestilent. 


46  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

And  then  with  sullen  iron  keys 
They  opened  doors  of  stone ; 

And  heavy  chained  captives  there 
They  showed  her,  one  by  one. 

Old,  white-haired  men  ;  men  middle-aged, 
That  had  been  strong  of  limb ; 

But  each,  now  pallid,  hollow-eyed, 
Like  spectres  worn  and  dim. 

And  many,  as  the  dull  door  oped, 
Ne'er  lifted  up  the  head  ;  — 

Heart-broken  victims  of  long  pain, 
Whose  very  hope  was  dead. 

Others  with  feverish  restlessness 
Sprang  up,  and  with  quick  cry, 

That  thrilled  the  hearer  to  the  soul, 
Demanded  liberty. 

With  bleeding  heart  went  Marien  on; 

And  her  conductors  spake, 
"  These  are  our  victims  ;  these  await 

The  rack,  the  cord,  the  stake. 

"  And  as  these  are,  so  shalt  thou  be 

If  thou  our  will  gainsay ; 
Accept  our  service,  pride,  and  power ; 

Or,  on  this  very  day, 
Racked,  prisoned,  poor,  and  miserable, 

Thou  shalt  be,  even  as  they ! " 

Down  on  the  floor  sank  Marien, 
And,  «  Oh,  dear  Lord  ! "  she  cried 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Assist  thy  poor  and  trembling  one 

This  awful  hour  to  bide  ; 
Let  me  be  strong  to  do  thy  will, 

Like  him  who  bowed,  and  died!" 

"  They  took  her :  —  of  that  prison-house 
The  secrets  who  may  say  ?  — 

Racked,  fettered,  captived,  in  their  power, 
The  gentle  Marien  lay  ; 

Captive  within  their  torture-halls 
A  long  night  and  a  day  ' 


PART  VII. 

THEN  forth  they  brought  her ;  gave  her  wine 

And  pleasant  food  to  eat ; 
And  "  Rest  thee,  Marien,  in  our  arms," 

Sung  syren  voices  sweet 

"  Rest  thee  within  our  arms  ;  refresh 

Thy  fainting  soul  with  wine  ; 
Eat  and  be  glad ;  forget  the  past, 

And  make  all  pleasure  thine  ! " 

*«  Tempt  me  not ! "  said  the  feeble  child, 
"  Take  hence  your  spiced  bowl ; 

Is't  not  enough  to  rack  my  limbs, 
But  you  must  vex  my  soul  ? 


48  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"Look  at  my  flesh,  which  ye  have  torn ; 

Look  at  your  bloody  rack  ;  — 
Take  hence  your  gifts,  and  let  me  go 

To  my  own  people  back. 

*  To  my  own  people  let  me  go, 
A  bruised  and  broken  reed : 

I  for  your  purpose  am  unmeet ; 
Let  me  go  hence  with  speed." 

So,  in  her  weakness,  prayed  the  child ; 

But  those  remorseless  men, 
More  dead  than  living,  bore  her  back 

Unto  their  prison-den. 

Into  a  noisome  prison-house, 

With  iron  doors  made  fast, 
'Mong  felons  and  'mong  murderers, 

Was  gentle  Marien  cast. 

Upon  the  hard,  cold  prison  floor. 

Sick  unto  death  she  lay, 
As  if  God  had  forsaken  her, 

For  many  a  weary  day. 

She  thought  of  her  sweet  forest  life, 
And  of  those  creatures  small, 

Weak,  woodland  creatures,  tamed  by  love, 
That  came  unto  her  call. 

She  thought  of  him,  the  forest-lord, 

And  of  the  forest-grange ; 
Of  the  delicious  life  she  led, 

With  liberty  to  range. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  49 

And  as  she  thought,  even  as  a  child's, 

The  ceaseless  tears  did  flow, 
For  torturing  pain  and  misery 

Had  brought  her  spirit  low. 

When  one  from  out  the  felon  band 

Came  softly  to  her  side, 
And  "  Do  not  weep,  thou  little  child ! " 

With  pitying  voice,  he  cried. 

"  At  sight  of  thee,  I  know  not  why, 

My  softened  heart  doth  burn, 
And  the  gone  tenderness  of  youth 

Doth  to  my  soul  return. 

i 

"  I  think  upon  my  early  days, 

Like  unto  days  of  heaven  ; 
And  I,  that  have  not  wept  for  years, 
Even  as  a  child,  shed  ceaseless  tears, 

And  pray  to  be  forgiven ! " 

"  Blessed  be  God !  "  said  Marien, 

And  rose  up  from  the  floor ; 
"  I  was  not  hither  brought  in  vain ! 

His  mercy  I  adore, 
Who  out  of  darkness  brought  forth  light !  * 

And  thus  she  wept  no  more. 

But  ever  of  the  Saviour  taught ; 

How  he  came  down  to  win, 
With  love,  and  suffering  manifold, 

The  sinner  from  his  sin. 

5 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

How,  not  to  kings  and  mighty  men 

He  came,  nor  to  the  wise, 
But  to  the  thief  and  murderer, 

And  those  whom  men  despise. 

And  how,  throughout  the  host  of  heaven 

Goes  yet  a  louder  praise 
O'er  one  poor  sinner  who  doth  turn 

From  his  unrighteous  ways, 
Than  o'er  a  hundred  godly  men, 

Who  sin  not  all  their  days. 

Thus  with  the  felons  she  abode, 

And  that  barred  prison  rude 
Was  as  if  angels  dwelt  therein, 

And  not  fierce  men  of  blood  ; 
For  God  had  her  captivity 

Turned  into  means  of  good. 

Now  all  this  while  sweet  Marien's  friends, 

Who  in  the  town  remained, 
Of  her  took  painful  thought,  resolved 

Her  freedom  should  be  gained. 

And  at  the  last  they  compassed  it, 

With  labor  long  and  great ; 
And  through  the  night  they  hurried  her 

Unto  the  city  gate. 

There  many  a  mother  stood,  and  child, 

Weeping  with  friendly  wo, 
Thus,  thus  to  meet,  as  'twere  from  death. 

And  then  to  bid  her  go. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  51 

To  bid  her  go,  whom  so  they  loved, 

Nor  once  more  see  her  face ; 
To  bid  her  go  ;  to  speed  her  forth 

To  some  more  friendly  place. 

Thus,  amid  blessings,  prayers,  and  lean, 

About  the  break  of  day, 
She  left  the  city,  praising  God 
For  her  release ;  and  swiftly  trod 

Upon  her  unknown  way. 


PART  VIIL 

A  BOW-SHOT  from  the  city  gate 
Turned  Marien  from  the  plain, 

Intent  by  unfrequented  ways 
The  mountain  land  to  gain. 

With  bounding  step  she  onward  went, 

Over  the  moorland  fells  ; 
O'er  fragrant  tracts  of  purple  thyme, 

And  crimson  heather-bells. 

Joyful  in  her  release  she  went, 
Still  onward  yet,  and  higher ; 
Up  many  a  mossy,  stony  steep, 
Through  many  a  flock  of  mountain  sheejv 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

By  the  hill-tarns  so  dark  and  deep, 
As  if  she  could  not  tire. 

Onward  and  upward  still  she  went 

Among  the  breezy  hills, 
Si'jging  for  very  joy  fulness 

Unto  the  singing  rills. 

The  days  of  her  captivity, 

The  days  of  fear  and  pain, 
Were  past,  and  now  through  shade  and  shine, 

She  wandered  free  again. 

Free,  like  the  breezes  of  the  hill, 

Free,  like  the  waters  wild  ; 
And  in  her  fullness  of  delight, 
Unceasingly  from  height  to  height 

Went  on  the  blessed  child. 

And  ever  when  she  needed  food, 

Some  wanderer  of  the  hill 
Drew  forth  the  morsel  from  his  scrip, 

And  bade  her  eat  her  fill. 

For  He  who  fed  by  Cherith-brook 

The  prophet  in  his  need, 
Of  this  the  wandering  little  one 

Unceasingly  had  heed. 

And  ever  when  she  needed  rest, 

Some  little  cove  she  found, 
So  green,  so  sheltered,  and  so  still, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  hill, 

As  angels  girt  it  round. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  93 

Thus  hidden  'rnong  the  quiet  hills, 

Alone,  yet  wanting  naught, 
She  dwelt  secure,  until  her  foes 

For  her  no  longer  sought. 

Then  forth  she  journeyed.     Soon  the  hilla 

Were  of  more  smooth  descent ; 
And  downward  now,  and  onward  still. 

Toward  the  sea  she  went. 

Toward  the  great  sea  for  many  days ; 

And  now  she  heard  its  roar ! 
Had  sunlit  glimpses  of  it  now, 

And  now  she  trod  the  shore. 

A  rugged  shore  of  broken  cliffs, 

And  barren  wave-washed  sand, 
Where  only  the  dry  sea-wheat  grew 

By  patches  on  the  strand. 

A  weary  way  walked  Marien 

Beside  the  booming  sea, 
Nor  boat,  nor  hut,  nor  fisherman 

Throughout  the  day  saw  she 

A  weary,  solitary  way  ; 

And  as  the  day  declined, 
Over  the  dark  and  troubled  sea 

Arose  a  stormy  wind. 

The  heavy  waves  came  roaring  in 

With  the  strong  coming  tide ; 
The  rain  poured  down,  and  deep  dark  night 

Closed  in  on  every  side. 

5* 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

There  stood  the  homeless  Marien 

With  bare,  unsandaled  feet ; 
And  on  her  form,  with  pitiless  force, 

The  raging  tempest  beat. 

Clasping  her  hands,  she  stood  forlorn, 

"  In  tempest,  and  in  night :  " 
She  cried,  "  Oh  Lord,  I  trust  in  thee, 

And  thou  wilt  lead  me  right !  " 

Now  underneath  a  shelving  bank 

Of  sea-driving  sand,  there  stood 
A  miserable  hut,  the  home 

Of  a  poor  fisher  good, 

Whose  loving  wife  but  yesternight 

Died  in  his  arms,  and  he, 
Since  that  day's  noon,  alone  had  been 

Casting  his  nets  at  sea. 

At  noon,  he  kissed  his  little  ones, 

And  would  be  back,  he  said, 
Long  ere  night  closed  ;  but  with  the  night 

Arose  that  tempest  dread. 

It  was  an  old  and  crazy  boat, 

Wherein  the  man  was  set, 
And  soon  'twas  laden  heavily 

With  many  a  laden  net  | 


"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow  ! "  groaned  he  forth, 

As  rose  the  sudden  squall, 
Thinking  upon  the  mother  dead, 

And  on  his  children  small. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow !  "  loud  he  cried, 
As  the  helm  flew  from  his  hand, 

And  he  knew  that  the  boat  was  sinking, 
But  half  a  league  from  land. 

"  Oh  sorrow,  sorrow  !  "  as  he  sank, 

Was  still  his  wailing  cry ; 
And  Marien  heard,  amid  the  storm, 

That  voice  of  misery. 

Now  all  this  while  the  children  small 

Kept  in  their  dreary  place, 
Troubled  and  sad,  and  half  afeared 

Of  their  dead  mother's  face. 

And  when,  to  while  the  time,  they  played 

With  shells  beside  the  door, 
They  found  they  had  not  hearts  for  mirth, 

And  so  they  played  no  more. 

Yet  keeping  up,  with  forced  content, 
Their  hearts  as  best  they  might ; 

Still  wishing  afternoon  were  gone, 
And  it  was  only  night. 

But  when,  hour  after  hour  went  on, 

And  the  night  tempest  black 
Raged  o'er  the  stormy  sea,  and  still 

The  father  came  not  back ; 

It  would  have  touched  a  heart  of  stone 

To  see  their  looks  of  fear  — 
So  young  and  so  forlorn  ;  —  their  words 

Of  counsel  small  to  hear. 


56  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

And  now  they  shouted  through  the  storm ; 

And  then  with  bitter  wit, 
As  they  had  seen  their  mother  do, 

A  fire  of  wood  they  lit, 
That  he  might  see  the  light  afar, 

And  steer  his  boat  by  it 

Unto  this  light  came  Marien ; 

And  ere  her  weary  feet 
Had  reached  the  floor,  the  children  ran 

With  eager  arms  to  meet 
Their  loving  father,  as  they  thought, 

And  give  him  welcome  sweet. 

Alas  !  the  father  even  then 

Had  run  his  mortal  race  ; 
But  God  had  sent  his  Comforter 

To  fill  his  earthly  place. 


PART  IX. 

WOE'S  me,  what  secret  tears  are  shed, 
What  wounded  spirits  bleed  ; 

What  loving  hearts  are  sundered, 
And  yet  man  takes  no  heed ! 

He  goeth  on  his  daily  course, 
Made  fat  with  oil  and  wine, 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  f>7 

And  pitieth  not  the  weary  souls 

That  in  his  bondage  pine  ; 
That  turn  for  him  the  mazy  wheel ; 

That  delve  for  him  the  mine. 

And  pitieth  not  the  children  small, 

In  noisy  factories  dim, 
That  all  day  long,  lean,  pale,  and  faint, 

Do  heavy  tasks  for  him ! 

To  him  they  are  but  as  the  stones 

Beneath  his  feet  that  lie  : 
It  entereth  not  his  thoughts  that  they 

From  him  claim  sympathy. 

It  entereth  not  his  thoughts  that  God 

Heareth  the  sufferer's  groan, 
That  in  his  righteous  eye,  their  life 

Is  precious  as  his  own. 

This  moves  him  not.     But  let  us  now 

Unto  the  fisher's  shed, 
Where  sat  his  little  weeping  ones 

Three  days  beside  the  dead. 

It  was  a  solitary  waste 

Of  barren  sand,  which  bore 
No  si^n  of  human  dwelling-place 

For  miles  along  the  shore. 

Yet  to  the  scattered  dwellers  there 

Sped  Marien,  and  besought 
That  of  the  living  and  the  dead 

They  would  take  Christian  thought 


58  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

So  in  the  churchyard  by  the  sea, 
The  senseless  dead  was  laid : 

"  And  now  what  will  become  of  u»|W 
The  weeping  children  said. 

"  For  who  will  give  us  bread  to  eat  ? 

The  neighbors  are  so  poor ! 
And  he,  our  kinsman  in  the  town, 

Would  drive  us  from  his  door. 

"  For  he  is  rich  and  pitiless, 
With  heart  as  cold  as  stone ! 

Who  will  be  parents  to  us,  now 
That  ours  are  dead  and  gone  ?" 

"  Weep  not,"  said  faithful  Marien, 
"  Man's  heart  is  not  so  hard, 

But  it  your  friendless  misery 
Will  tenderly  regard ! 

"  And  I  with  you  will  still  abide, 
Your  friendless  souls  to  cheer, 

Be  father  and  mother  both  to  you : 
For  this  God  sent  me  here. 

"  And  to  your  kinsman  in  the  town, 
Who  hath  such  store  of  gold, 

I  will  convey  you :  God  can  change 
His  spirit  stern  and  cold. 

"  And  ye,  like  angels  of  sweet  love, 
From  earth  his  soul  may  win. 

Fear  not ;  and  we  with  morning  light 
The  journey  will  begin." 


HOWITT  S    POEMS. 

They  took  their  little  worldly  store : 

And  at  the  break  of  day, 
Leaving  the  lonesome  sea-side  shed, 

Set  out  upon  their  way. 

'Mong  sandy  hills  their  way  they  wound ; 

O'er  sea-grass  dusk  and  harsh ; 
By  many  a  land-mark  lone  and  still ; 

Through  many  a  salt-sea  marsh. 

And  thus  for  twice  seven  days  they  went, 

A  little  roving  band, 
Walking  along  their  weary  way ; 

Like  angels,  hand  in  hand. 

And  everywhere  kind  Christian  folks 

They  found,  as  Marien  said, 
Who  gave  them  lodging  for  the  night, 

And  gave  them  daily  bread. 

And  thus  they  pilgrimed,  day  by  day, 

Alone  yet  not  cast  down, 
Strengthened  by  Marien's  company, 

Unto  the  seaport  town. 

A  busy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Where  men  were  all  astir, 
Buying  and  selling ;  eager-eyed, 
Two  different  races,  yet  allied,  — 

Merchant  and  mariner. 

A  place  of  ships,  whose  name  was  known 

Far  oft,  beyond  the  main ; 
A  busy  place  of  trade,  where  naught 

Was  in  repute  but  gain. 


60  HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

Thither  they  came,  those  children  poor, 

About  the  eventide, 
And  where  dwelt  he,  their  kinsman  rich, 

They  asked  on  every  side. 

After  long  asking,  one  they  found, 

An  old  man  and  a  poor, 
Who  undertook  to  lead  them  straight 

Unto  the  kinsman's  door. 

But  ever,  as  he  went  along, 

He  to  himself  did  say, 
Low  broken  sentences,  as  thus, 

"  Their  kinsman !  —  well-a-way  !  " 

All  through  a  labyrinth  of  walls 
Blackened  with  cloudy  smoke, 

He  led  them,  where  was  heard  the  porge 
And  the  strong  hammer's  stroke. 

And  beneath  lofty  windows  dim, 

In  many  a  dolefel  row, 
Whence  came  the  jangle  of  quick  looms, 

Down  to  the  courts  below. 

Still  on  the  children,  terrified, 
With  wildered  spirits  passed ; 

Until  of  these  great  mammon  halls, 
They  reached  the  heart  at  last,  — 

A  little  chamber,  hot  and  dim, 
With  iron  bars  made  fast. 

There  sate  the  kinsman,  shrunk  and  lean. 
And  leaden-eyed  and  old, 


HO  WITT  S    POEMS.  61 

Busied  before  a  lighted  lamp 
In  sealing  bags  of  gold. 

The  moment  that  they  entered  in, 

He  clutched,  with  pallid  fear, 
His  heavy  bags,  as  if  he  thought 

That  sudden  thieves  were  near. 

"  Rich  man  !  "  said  Marien,  "  ope  thy  bags, 

And  of  thy  gold  be  free. 
Make  gladsome  cheer,  for  heaven  hath  sent 

A  blessing  unto  thee  !  " 
"  What !  "  said  the  miser,  "  is  there  news 

Of  my  lost  argosy  ?  " 

"  Better  than  gold,  or  merchant-ships, 

Is  that  which  thou  shalt  win," 
Said  Marien,  "  thine  immortal  soul 

From  its  black  load  of  sin." 

"  Look  at  these  children,  thine  own  blood," 

And  then  their  name  she  told  ; 
"  Open  thine  heart  to  do  them  good, 

To  love  them  more  than  gold ;  — 
And  what  thou  givest  will  come  back 

To  thee,  a  thousand  fold  ! " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  miser,  "  even  these 

Some  gainful  work  may  do, 
My  looms  stand  still ;  of  youthful  hands 

I  have  not  half  enow  ; 
I  shall  have  profit  in  their  toil ; 

Yes,  child,  thy  words  are  true !  " 


IIOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"Thou  fool ! "  said  Marien,  « still  for  gain, 

To  cast  thy  soul  away  ! 
The  Lord  be  judge  'twixt  these  and  thee 

Upon  his  reckoning  day ! 

"  These  little  ones  are  fatherless,  — 

He  sees  them  day  and  night ; 
And  as  thou  doest  unto  them, 

On  thee  he  will  requite ! " 

1 1 

Gave  I  not  alms  upon  a  time  ?" 

Said  he,  with  anger  thrilled  ; 
"  And  when  I  die,  give  I  not  gold, 

A  stately  church  to  build  ? 

"  What  wouldst  thou  more  ?  my  flesh  and 
blood 

I  seek  not  to  gainsay, 
But  what  I  give,  is  it  unmeet 

Their  labor  should  repay ! 


.  i  '• 


So  saying,  in  an  iron  chest, 
He  locked  his  bags  of  gold, 

And  bade  the  children  follow  him. 
In  accents  harsh  and  cold. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

I 
! 


PART  X. 

"  OH  leave  us  not,  sweet  Marien  ?  " 

The  little  children  spake  ; 
"  For  if  thou  leave  us  here,  alone, 

Our  wretched  hearts  will  break." 

She  left  them  not  —  kind  Marien  ? 

And  in  a  noisome  room, 
Day  after  day,  week  after  week, 

They  labored  at  the  loom. 

The  while  they  thought  with  longing  soula 

Upon  the  breezy  strand, 
The  flying  shuttles,  to  and  fro, 

Passed  through  each  little  hand. 

The  while  they  thought  with  aching  hearts, 

Upon  their  parents  dear, 
The  growing  web  was  watered 

With  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  the  sweet  memory  of  the  past,  — 
The  white  sands  stretching  wide ; 

Their  father's  boat  wherein  they  played, 
Upon  the  rocking  tide  ; 

The  sandy  shells  ;  the  sea-mew's  scream ; 

The  ocean's  ceaseless  boom ; 
Came  to  them  like  a  troubling  dream, 

Within  the  noisy  loom. 


64  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Wo- worth  those  children,  hard  bested, 

A  weary  life  they  knew  ; 
Their  hands  were  thin,  their  cheeks  were 
pale, 

That  were  of  rosy  hue. 

The  miser  kinsman  in  and  out 

Passed  ever  and  anon  ; 
Nor  ever  did  he  speak  a  word, 

Except  to  urge  them  on. 

Wo-worth  those  children,  hard  bested, 
They  worked  the  livelong  day ; 

Nor  was  there  one,  save  Marien, 
A  soothing  word  to  say :  — 

So,  amid  toil  and  pain  of  heart, 
The  long  months  wore  away. 

The  long,  the  weary  months  passed  on, 

And  the  hard  kinsman  told 
Over  his  profits  ;  every  loom 

Increased  the  hoard  of  gold ; 
"'Tis  well !  "  said  he,  "  let  more  be  spun, 

That  more  may  yet  be  sold ! " 

So  passed  the  time ;  and  with  the  toil 

Of  children  weak  and  poor, 
The  sordid  kinsman's  treasure-hoards 

Increased  more  and  more. 

But  ere  a  year  was  come  and  gone, 

The  spirit  of  the  boy 
Was  changed ;  with  natures  fierce  and  rude 

He  found  his  chiefest  joy. 


HO  WITT  S    POEMS.  Od 

The  hardness  of  the  kinsman's  soul 

Wrought  on  him  like  a  spell, 
Exciting  in  his  outraged  heart, 

Revenge  and  hatred  fell ; 
The  will  impatient  to  control ; 

The  spirit  to  rebel. 

Hence  was  there  warfare  'twixt  the  two 

The  weak  against  the  strong ; — 
A  hopeless,  miserable  strife 

That  could  not  last  for  long ; 
How  can  the  young,  the  poor,  contend 

Against  the  rich  man's  wrong ! 

The  tender  trouble  of  his  eye, 

Was  gone ;  his  brow  was  cold ; 
His  speech,  like  that  of  desperate  men, 

Was  reckless,  fierce,  and  bold. 

No  more  he  kissed  his  sister's  cheek ; 

Nor  soothed  her  as  she  wept ; 
No  more  he  said  at  Marien's  knee 

His  prayers  before  he  slept 

But  they,  the  solitary  pair, 

Like  pitying  angels  poured 
Tears  for  the  sinner  ;  and  with  groans 

His  evil  life  deplored. 

Man  knew  not  of  that  secret  grief, 

Which  in  their  bosoms  lay  ; 
And  for  their  sinful  brother's  sin, 

Yet  harder  doom  had  they. 


66  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

But  God,  who  trieth  hearts ;  who  knows 

The  springs  of  human  will ; 
Who  is  a  juster  judge  than  man, 

Of  mortal  good  and  ill ; 

• 

He  saw  those  poor  despised  ones, 
And  willed  them  still  to  mourn ; 

He  saw  the  wandering  prodigal, 
Yet  bade  him  not  return. 

In  his  good  time  that  weak  one's  wo, 
Would  do  its  work  of  grace  ; 

And  the  poor  prodigal,  himself, 
Would  seek  the  father's  face ;  — 

Meantime  man's  judgment  censured  them, 
As  abject,  mean,  and  base. 

The  erring  brother  was  away, 
And  none  could  tell  his  fate  ; 

And  the  young  sister  at  the  loom 
Sate  drooping,  desolate. 

She  mourned  not  for  her  parents  dead, 

Nor  for  the  breezy  shore : 
And  now  the  weary,  jangling  loom 

Distracted  her  no  more. 

Like  one  that  worketh  in  a  dream, 

So  worked  she  day  by  day, 
Intent  upon  the  loving  grief, 

Which  on  her  spirit  lay ; 
And  as  she  worked  and  as  she  grieved, 

Her  young  life  wore  away. 


IIOWITT'S  POEMS.  67 

And  they  who  saw  her  come  and  go, 

Oft  said,  with  pitying  tongue, 
"  Alas,  that  labor  is  the  doom 

Of  aught  so  weak  and  young  !  " 

Alone  the  "kinsman  pitied  not ; 

He  chid  her,  that  no  more 
The  frame  was  strong,  the  hand  was  swift, 

As  it  had  been  before. 

—  All  for  the  child  was  dark  on  earth, 

When  holy  angels  bright 
Unbarred  the  golden  gates  of  heaven 

For  her  one  winter's  night. 

Within  a  chamber  poor  and  low, 

Upon  a  pallet  bed 
She  lay,  and  "  Hold  my  hand,  sweet  friend," 

With  feeble  voice  she  said. 

"  Oh  hold  my  hand,  sweet  Marien," 

The  dying  child  spake  low  ; 
"  And  let  me  hear  thy  blessed  voice, 

To  cheer  me  as  I  go  ! 

"  'Tis  darksome  all  —  Oh,  drearly  dark ! 

When  will  this  gloom  pass  by  ? 
Is  there  no  comfort  for  the  poor, 

And  for  the  young  who  die !  " 

Down  by  her  side  knelt  Marien, 

And  kissed  her  fading  cheek, 
Then  of  the  loving  Saviour, 

In  low  tones  'gan  to  speak. 


IIOWITT'S  POEMS. 

She  told  of  Lazarus,  how  he  lay, 

A  beggar  mean  and  poor, 
And  died,  in  misery  and  want, 

Beside  the  rich  man's  door. 

Yet  how  the  blessed  angels  came, 

To  bear  his  soul  on  high, 
Within  the  glorious  courts  of  heaven, 

On  Abraham's  breast  to  lie. 

She  told  how  children,  when  they  die, 

Yet  higher  glory  win, 
And  see  the  Father  face  to  face, 

Unsoiled  by  tainting  sin. 

"  Blessed  be  God !  "  the  child  began, 

"  I  doubt  not,  neither  fear, 
All  round  about  the  bed,  behold, 

The  angel-bands  appear ! 

"  I  go !  —  yet  still,  dear  Marien, 
One  last  boon  let  me  win !  — 

Seek  out  the  poor  lost  prodigal, 
And  bring  him  back  from  sin ! 

"  I  go  !  I  go ! "  and  angels  bright, 

The  spirit  bare  away :  — 
On  earth  'twas  darksome,  dreary  night, 

In  heaven  'twas  endless  day  ! 

—  And  now,  upon  that  selfsame  night, 

Within  a  carved  bed, 
Lay  the  rich  kinsman  wrapt  in  lawn, 

With  pillows  'neath  his  head. 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

Scheming  deep  schemes  of  gold,  he  lay 

All  in  that  lordly  room ; 
Blessing  himself  that  he  had  stores 

For  many  years  to  come. 

Just  then  an  awful  form  spake  low, 
A  form  that  none  might  see : 

"  Thou  fool,  this  very  night,  thy  soul 
Shall  be  required  of  thee  ! 


!  " 


And  when  into  that  chamber  fair 

Stole  in  the  morning  ray, 
A  lifeless  corpse,  upon  his  bed, 

The  miser  kinsman  lay. 

—  Beside  his  door  stood  solemn  mutes  ; 

And  chambers  high  and  dim, 
Where  hung  was  pall,  and  mourning  lights 

Made  show  of  grief  for  him. 

Full  fifty  muffled  mourners  stood, 

Around  the  scutcheoned  bed, 
That  held  the  corse,  as  if,  indeed, 

A  righteous  man  were  dead. 

Within  a  tomb,  which  he  had  built, 

Of  costly  marble-stone, 
They  buried  him,  and  plates  of  brass 

His  name  and  wealth  made  known. 

A  coffin  of  the  meanest  wood, 

The  little  child  received  ; 
And  o'er  that  humble,  nameless  grave, 

No  hooded  mourner  grieved. 


70  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Only  kind  Marien  wept  such  tears, 
As  the  dear  Saviour  shed, 

When  in  the  house  of  Bethany 
He  mourned  for  Lazarus  dead. 


PART  XL 

Now  from  the  miser  kinsman's  house 
Came  many  a  jovial  sound ; 

And  lavish  heirs  had  spent  his  gold, 
Ere  twelve  months  had  gone  round. 

That  while  within  the  husy  town 
Dwelt  Marien  ;  and  each  day, 

In  some  good  deed  of  Christian  love 
And  mercy,  passed  away. 

For  many  an  abject  dweller  there, 
Grief-bowed  and  labor-spent, 

Groaned  forth,  amid  his  little  ones, 
To  heaven  his  sad  lament ; 

And  unto  such,  to  raise,  to  cheer, 
The  sent  of  God,  she  went. 

But  she  who,  even  as  they,  was  poor, 

Failed  not  of  daily  bread  ; 
A  stranger,  many  took  her  in, 

And  warmed,  and  clothed,  and  fed 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  7* 

And  when  a  sickness  sore  befell, 

And  nigh  to  death  she  lay, 
Kind  hearts  there  were  who  came  to  her, 

And  watched  her  night  and  day. 

And  afterwards,  when  evil  men 

Doomed  her  in  bonds  to  lie, 
Many  a  true,  noble  friend  arose, 

Willing  for  her  to  die. 

Oh,  blessed  Christian  hearts,  who  thus 

Unto  this  little  one 
Did  deeds  of  love  ;  for  as  to  Christ 

These  righteous  works  were  done  ! 
And  they  who  blessed  her,  for  themselves 

A  tenfold  blessing  won  ! 

Thus  dwelt  sweet  Marien  in  the  town 

For  many  a  passing  year ; 
Yet  of  the  poor,  lost  prodigal 

No  tidings  could  she  hear. 


She  found  him  not ;  but  yet  she  found 

Others  who,  even  as  he, 
Had  gone  astray,  and  pined  forlorn 

In  hopeless  misery. 


To  these  repentant,  outcast  ones, 
She  spake  kind  words  of  grace, 

And  led  them  back,  with  yearning  heart*, 
To  seek  the  father's  face ; 

To  find  forgiveness  in  His  heart, 
And  love  in  His  embrace. 


72  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Oh  blessed,  blessed  Marien  ! 

—  But  let  us  now  recall 
Whate'er  had  happed  of  change  and  wo 

Unto  the  prodigal. 

He  saw  his  little  sister  pine  ; 

He  saw  her  silent  wo  ; 
He  saw  her  strength  decline,  yet  still 

Her  weary  labor  grow. 

As  this  he  saw,  yet  more  and  more 

He  hated  that  hard  man, 
With  whom  their  cheerless  misery, 

Their  daily  tasks  began. 

And  even  to  true  Marien, 
He  bare  an  altered  mind :  — 

Alas,  that  injuries  should  make 
Else  loving  hearts  unkind  ! 

But  so  it  is  !  and  when  the  twain 

To  cheer  his  spirit  strove, 
His  wrath  arose,  and  he  repelled 

Their  patient  deeds  of  love. 

Then  evil  men  assailed  his  youth  ; 

And  he  who  was  so  frail 
In  suffering,  'gainst  the  tempter's  might 

Was  feeble  to  prevail. 

He  was  their  easy  prey  ;  their  tool ; 

And  bravely  clothed  and  fed  ; 
In  desperate  scenes,  'mid  desperate  men, 

A  lawless  life  he  led. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  78 

Yet  often  to  his  soul  came  back 

Sweet  memory  of  the  time, 
When  he,  a  happy  thoughtless  child, 

Had  knowledge  of  no  crime. 

And  like  a  heavier,  wearier  wo, 

Than  labor  night  and  day, 
The  consciousness  of  evil  deeds 

Upon  his  spirit  lay. 

He  thought  of  slighted  Marien, 

And  of  the  sister  meek ; 
Of  the  thin  hands  that  plied  the  loom. 

And  of  the  faded  cheek  ; 
Yet  how  he  had  deserted  them, 

The  faithful  and  the  weak ! 

He  heard  his  loving  parent's  voice 

Reproach  him  in  his  sleep  ; 
And  conscience,  that  stern  bosom-guest, 

Ceaseless  upbraidings  keep. 

Yet,  for  the  hated  kinsman's  sake, 

Neither  would  he  regard  ; 
And,  because  man  was  hard  to  him, 

Made  his  own  nature  hard. 

Thus  doing  outrage  to  his  soul, 

By  chance  he  went  one  day 
Through  the  brown  trodden  churchyard,  where 

The  little  sister  lay. 

A  sexton  there  at  work  he  found ; 
And  why  he  turned  the  mould 


74  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

So  carefully,  he  asked,  since  there 
No  name  the  tenant  told. 


Replied  he,  "  In  this  wide  churchyard 
I  know  each  separate  mound ; 

Yet  unto  me  that  little  grave 
Alone  seems  holy  ground." 

And  then  he  told  of  Marien, 
And  how  she  there  had  wept 

Over  the  child,  that  'neath  the  mould, 
In  dreamless  quiet  slept. 

"  A  little,  friendless  pauper  child, 

She  lieth  here,"  said  he  ; 
"  Yet  not  a  grave  in  all  the  ground 

Like  this  affecteth  me  1 " 

Saying  this,  he  wiped  a  tear  aside, 
And  turned  him  from  the  place ; 

And,  in  the  skirts  of  his  rich  robe, 
The  brother  hid  his  face. 

—  He  left  the  town  ;  and  in  a  ship, 
Bound  for  a  far-off  strand, 

He  took  his  voyage ;  but  distress 
Pursued  her  from  the  land. 

At  first  disease  was  'mong  her  men ; 

And  suffering  long  and  sore, 
In  midst  of  joyless,  suffering  mates, 

Forlorn  and  sad  he  bore. 


HOWITT'S    POEMS. 

Next  mutiny  brake  forth ;  and  then 

That  miserable  ship, 
As  if  there  were  no  port  for  her, 
Without  a  wind  the  sails  to  stir, 

Lay  moveless  on  the  deep. 

As  Jonah,  fleeing  from  the  Lord, 

The  soul-struck  penitent 
Lay  self-condemned,  believing  all 

On  his  account  were  sent. 

Anon  a  tempest  rose,  and  drove 

The  ship  before  the  gale 
For  three  long  days  ;  and  bore  away 

Her  rudder,  mast,  and  sail. 

On  the  fourth  night  dark  land  appeared, 
And  the  strained  vessel  bore 

Right  on  the  rocky  reef,  and  lay 
A  wreck  upon  the  shore. 

At  daybreak  only  he  remained 
To  note  the  vessel's  fate:  — 

The-  Crusoe  of  a  desert  isle, 
Abject  and  desolate. 

—  The  world  went  on  as  it  was  wont, 

And  in  the  city  street, 
And  in  the  busy  market-place, 

Did  thronging  thousands  meet 

Upon  the  hearths  of  poor  men's  homes 
Good  neighbors  met  at  night ; 

And  kindness  and  companionship 
Made  wo  and  labor  light. 


76  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

The  loneliest  hut  among  the  hilia 
To  human  hearts  was  known ; 

And  even  in  kingly  palaces, 
Men  might  not  dwell  alone. 

The  world  went  on  as  it  was  wont ; 

And  no  man  knew  the  while 
Of  that  poor  lonely  prodigal, 

Upon  his  lonely  isle. 

He  clomb  the  cliffs  to  look  afar 

Over  the  distant  sea ; 
If,  please  God,  for  his  rescuing 

A  coming  sail  might  be. 

He  lit  his  beacon  fires  at  night ; 

He  hoisted  signals  high ;  — 
But  the  world  went  on  as  it  was  wont, 

And  not  a  ship  sailed  by. 

He  was  not  missed  among  his  kind,— 

Man  had  forgot  his  name  ; 
But  unto  Him  who  cares  for  all, 
Who  sees  the  little  sparrow  fall, 
His  lonely  misery  came. 

God  saw  him  ;  saw  his  broken  heart, 

His  cheerless  solitude, 
Saw  how  his  human  pride  was  gone, 

His  human  will  subdued. 

Saw  him  and  loved  him.     Broken  heart, 
Look  up  !  the  Father's  voice 

Calleth  thee  from  thy  depths  of  wo, 
And  biddeth  thee  rejoice  ! 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  77 

—  Now  Marien  from  the  trading  town 

Had  voyaged  ;  sent  of  Heaven 
She  knew  not  whither  ;  and  the  ship, 

Which  with  long  storm  had  striven, 
At  length  upon  a  glorious  isle 

Amid  the  seas  was  driven  ; 

Where  dwelt  a  gentle  race  at  rest 

Amid  their  flowery  wilds, 
Unknown  to  all  the  world,  with  hearts 

As  simple  as  a  child's. 

With  them  abode  sweet  Marien : 

But  now  it  chanced  one  day, 
As  in  a  slender  carved  boat 

Upon  the  shore  she  lay, 
A  strong  wind  carne,  and  filled  the  sail, 

And  bare  her  thence  away. 

She  had  no  fear,  true  Marien  ;  — 

That  God  was  good,  she  knew, 
And  even  then  had  sent  her  forth 

Some  work  of  love  to  do. 

The  prodigal  upon  his  rock 

Was  kneeling,  and  his  prayer 
For  confidence  in  heaven,  arose 

Upon  the  evening  air, 
Just  as  the  little  boat  approached 

The  island  bleak  and  bare. 

The  boat  ran  up  a  creek,  as  if 

'Twere  steered  by  angels  good ; 
And  ere  the  evening  prayer  was  done 

Beside  the  youth  she  stood. 


78  HOWITT?S    POEMS. 

The  chiefest  joy  it  hath  not  words 

Its  deep  excess  to  say  ; 
And  as  if  he  had  seen  a  sprite, 

His  spirit  died  away. 

Then  with  clasped  hands,  and  broken  speech, 
And  tears  that  ceaseless  flowed, 

He  poured  forth  from  his  full  heart 
A  fervent  praise  of  God. 


PART  XII. 

"  BUT  let  us  hence,"  said  Marien ; 

And  with  the  earliest  morn, 
Within  the  slender  carved  boat, 

They  left  the  isle  forlorn. 

A  light  breeze  from  the  desert  shore 

Over  the  waters  blew, 
And  the  little  boat  sailed  on  before, 

Till  the  isle  was  out  of  view. 

As  friends  long  parted,  met  once  more, 
They  sat ;  and  of  times  gone, 

And  of  the  blessed  dead  conversed, 
As  the  slender  boat  sailed  on, 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  79 

And  as  they  sailed,  sweet  Marien 

Over  the  Gospel  bent, 
And  read  of  joy  that  is  in  heaven 

O'er  sinners  that  repent : 

And  of  the  weary  prodigal 

Returning,  bowed  with  shame, 
And  the  good  father  hastening  forth 

To  meet  him  as  he  came  ; 

And  how  he  bade  the  fairest  robe 

Be  brought ;  the  golden  ring  ; 
Shoes  for  the  feet ;  and  music  sweet, 

As  if  to  hail  a  king. 

"  For  this,  my  son,"  said  he,  "  was  dead, 

And  is  alive ;  is  found, 
Who  was  long  lost ;  'tis  meet,  therefore, 

That  stintless  joy  abound  !  " 

"  Oh,  child  of  wo,"  said  Marien, 

"  Look  up,  for  thou  art  he  ; 
And  round  about  the  father's  throne 

Many  rejoice  for  thee  !  " 

"  Oh  Lord,  I  bless  thee,"  said  the  youth, 

"That  of  thy  mercy  great, 
Thou  hast  vouchsafed  to  rescue  me 

From  my  forlorn  estate  ! 
And  henceforth,  to  thy  work  of  love 

Myself  I  dedicate ! 

"  The  meanest  of  thy  creatures,  low 
I  bend  before  thy  throne, 


80 


And  offer  my  poor  self,  to  make 
Thy  loving  kindness  known  ! 

"  Oh  father,  give  me  words  of  power, 

The  stony  hearts  to  move  ; 
Give  me  prevailing  eloquence, 

To  publish  forth  thy  love ! 

"  Thy  love  which  wearieth  not ;  which  like 

Thy  sun,  on  all  doth  shine ! 
Oh  Father,  let  me  worship  Thee 
Through  life,  by  gladly  serving  Thee ! 
I  love  not  life  ;  I  ask  not  wealth  ; 
My  heart  and  soul,  my  youth  and  health, 

My  life,  oh  Lord,  are  thine  !  " 

So  spake  the  youth ;  but  now  the  boat 

The  glorious  island  neared, 
Which,  like  a  cloudland  realm  of  bliss, 

Above  the  sea  appeared. 

Skyward  rose  sunny  peaks,  pale-hued 

As  if  of  opal  glow ; 
And  crested  palms,  broad-leaved  and  tall, 

In  valleys  grew  below. 

A  lovely  land  of  flowers,  as  fair 

As  Paradise,  ere  sin 
And  sorrow,  that  corrupting  pair, 

With  death  had  entered  in. 

A  lovely  land  !  —  "  And  even  now," 
Cried  Marien,  "  see  they  come, 

Children  of  love,  my  brother,  now 
To  bid  thee  welcome  home ! 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  81 

"For  these,  God  kept  thee  in  the  wild, 

From  sinful  men  apart ! 
For  these,  his  people,  through  distress, 

Made  pure  thy  trusting  heart ! 

"  Thy  work  is  here  !     Go  forth,  'mid  these 

Meek  children  of  the  sun, 
Oh  servant  of  the  Lord,  and  tell 

What  He  for  thee  hath  done!" 

Down  to  the  shore  the  thousands  came, 

A  joyous,  peaceful  host, 
To  welcome  Marien  back,  whom  they 

Had  sorrowed  for  as  lost. 

«  And  welcome  to  thee,  little  child !" 
They  sang  forth  sweet  and  clear ; 

"  And  welcome  to  the  stranger  poor, 
Who  cometh  with  thee  here ! " 

And  then  they  brought  him  silken  cloth, 

Since  he  was  meanly  dressed  ; 
And  juicy,  mellow  fruits  to  eat, 
And  perfumed  waters  for  his  feet, 

And  mats  whereon  to  rest. 

And  ever  as  they  served  him, 

They  sang  forth  sweet  and  low, 
"  Would  this  repose  might  solace  thee, 

These  apples  cure  thy  wo  ! " 

And  though  the  twain  knew  not  their  speech, 

Yet  well  they  understood 
The  looks  of  love  that  welcomed  them, 

Their  actions  kind  and  good. 


82  HOWITT'S  POEMS 

With  them  for  many  a  yeai  abode 
The  youth,  and  learned  their  tongue ; 

And  with  the  sound  of  Christian  praise 
The  hills  and  valleys  rung. 

Oh  beautiful  beyond  all  lands 

That  lay  beneath  the  moon, 
Was  that  fair  isle  of  Christian  love, 

Of  Christian  virtues  boon. 

A  joyful  people  there  they  dwelt, 
Unsuffering  from  their  birth  ; 

Of  simplest  life  ;  benignly  wise ; 
As  angels  on  the  earth. 

And  with  them  dwelt  the  holy  youth, 
Their  chief,  their  priest,  their  friend, 

Beloved  and  loving,  for  their  sakes 
Willing  himself  to  spend. 

Like  to  some  ancient  church  of  Christ, 
From  worldly  taint  kept  free, 

Lay  this  delicious  isle  of  love 
Amid  its  summer  sea. 

But  now  the  work  he  had  to  do 

Was  done ;  and  ere  his  day 
Approached  its  noon,  his  strength,  his  life, 

Was  wearing  fast  away. 

They  saw  his  cheek  grow  thin  and  pale; 

His  loving  eye  grow  dim  ; 
And  with  surpassing  tenderness 

They  sorrowed  over  him 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Old  men,  and  youths,  and  women  meek, 
And  children  wild  and  young, 

Followed  his  steps  with  watchful  care, 
And  weeping  round  him  hung. 

In  flowery  thickets  of  the  hills 
Sad  mourners  knelt  in  prayer, 

That  God  this  servant  so  revered, 
This  friend  beloved  would  spare. 

And  round  about  his  feet  they  sat, 

Observant,  meek,  and  still, 
To  gather  up  his  latest  words, 

To  do  his  slightest  will. 

Now  all  this  while  good  Marien 
Had  wandered  far  and  wide, 

Through  divers  realms,  for  many  a  year, 
The  hand  of  Heaven  her  guide. 

And  now  unto  the  glorious  isle 
She  came  ;  but  on  the  shore 

She  saw  no  wandering  company, 
As  she  had  seen  before. 

'Twas  Sabbath  eve,  and  o'er  the  isle 

A  solemn  stillness  lay ; 
A  stillness,  how  unlike  the  calm 

Of  many  a  Sabbath  day  ; 

A  hush,  as  of  suspended  breath, 
Ere  some  great  grief  began ; 

For  the  mournful  people  silently 
Stood  round  the  dying  man. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Through  the  still  vales  went  Marien, 
And  came  at  length  to  where, 

'Mid  flowering  trees,  knelt  many  a  one 
In  agony  of  prayer. 

Onward  she  went,  not  many  steps, 
With  heart  of  mournful  ruth, 

When,  like  a  dying  angel  laid, 
She  saw  the  holy  youth. 

With  closed  eyes  and  pallid  lips 

He  lay,  as  one  whose  life 
Meeteth  with  death,  yet  waiteth  still 

The  last  conflicting  strife. 

Beside  him  knelt  she  on  the  turf, 

And  spoke  in  accents  low 
Words  of  strong  love,  which  like  new  life 

Seemed  through  the  frame  to  go. 

He  raised  himself,  and  blessing  God, 

That  He  of  him  had  care, 
And  now  in  his  dark  trial-hour, 

Had  sent  his  angel  there  ; 

With  low-toned  voice,  more  musical 
Than  softest  lute  could  make, 

Looking  upon  his  weeping  friends 
With  fervent  love,  he  spake. 

"  Oh  friends,  beloved  friends !  weep  not, 

Nor  be.  oppressed  with  wo ; 
Tis  of  His  will,  who  doeth  right. 

That  I  am  called  to  go ! 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Fain  would  I  tarry,  but  the  cry 
Hath  sounded  in  mine  ear, 

*  Haste  to  depart,  the  Lord  hath  need 
Of  thee  no  longer  here  ! 1 


"  Even  like  the  master  whom  I  serve, 

I  pray  ye  not  to  grieve  ; 
But  as  ye  have  believed  in  me, 

Also  in  Him  believe  ! 


"  I  go,  but  leave  you  not  forlorn, 
As  sheep  without  a  guide  ;  — 

For  Christ,  the  unfailing  Comforter, 
Shall  still  with  you  abide  ! 


"  Oh  weep  not,  friends  ;  a  better  home 

Awaits  me,  and  I  go, 
But  to  that  home  which  is  prepared 

For  ye  who  love  me  so ! 
Farewell,  farewell !     Unto  my  God, 

And  unto  yours,  I  go ! " 

The  Sabbath  sun  went  down  amid 

A  golden,  cloudless  sky ; 
And  the  freed  spirit,  cleansed  from  sin, 

Arose  to  God  on  high. 

Beneath  the  trees  where  he  had  died, 
They  buried  him,  and  there 

Enwove  the  flowery  boughs  to  form 
A  quiet  house  of  prayer. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Long  time  with  them  dwelt  Marien, 
Until  she  was  sent  forth, 

At  the  Lord's  bidding,  to  perform 
New  service  on  the  earth. 


Good  speed  to  thee,  thou  blessed  child, 

May  angels  guide  thy  bark, 
'Mid  slumbrous  calm,  'mid  tempests  wild, 

And  o'er  the  waters  dark ! 


Good  speed  to  thee,  thou  blessed  child  — 

The  angel  of  the  poor  — 
And  win  from  sorrow  and  from  sin 

The  world  from  shore  to  shore  . 


(87) 


OLD  CHRISTMAS. 

Now  he  who  knows  old  Christmas, 
He  knows  a  carle  of  worth ; 

For  he  is  as  good  a  fellow, 
As  any  upon  the  earth. 

He  comes  warm  cloaked  and  coated, 
And  buttoned  up  to  the  chin, 

And  soon  as  he  comes  a-nigh  the  door, 
We  open  and  let  him  in. 

We  know  that  he  will  not  fail  us, 
So  we  sweep  the  hearth  up  clean ; 

We  set  him  in  the  old  armed  chair, 
And  a  cushion  whereon  to  lean. 

And  with  sprigs  of  holly  and  ivy 
We  make  the  house  look  gay, 

Just  out  of  an  old  regard  to  him,  — 
For  it  was  his  ancient  way. 

We  broach  the  strong  ale  barrel, 
And  bring  out  wine  and  meat ; 

And  thus  have  all  things  ready, 
Our  dear  old  friend  to  greet 

And  soon  the  time  wears  round, 
The  good  old  carle  we  see, 

Coming  a-near ;  —  for  a  creditor 
Less  punctual  is  than  he ! 


I 
HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

He  comes  with  a  cordial  voice 

That  does  one  good  to  hear ; 
He  shakes  one  heartily  by  the  hand, 

As  he  hath  done  many  a  year. 

Aud  after  the  little  children 

He  asks  in  a  cheerful  tone, 
Jack,  Kate,  and  little  Annie,  — 

He  remembers  them  every  one ! 

What  a  fine  old  fellow  he  is, 

With  his  faculties  all  as  clear, 
And  his  heart  as  warm  and  light 

As  a  man  in  his  fortieth  year! 

What  a  fine  old  fellow,  in  troth ! 

Not  one  of  your  griping  elves, 
Who,  with  plenty  of  money  to  spare, 

Think  only  about  themselves ! 

Not  he  !  for  he  loveth  the  children ; 

And  holiday  begs  for  all ; 
And  comes,  with  his  pockets  full  of  gifts, 

For  the  great  ones  and  the  small ! 

With  a  present  for  every  servant ;  — 

For  in  giving  he  doth  not  tire ;  — 
From  the  red-faced,  jovial  butler, 

To  the  girl  by  the  kitchen-fire. 

And  he  tells  us  witty  old  stories, 

And  singeth  with  might  and  main ; 
And  we  talk  of  the  old  man's  visit 

Till  the  day  that  he  comes  again ! 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Oh  he  is  a  kind  old  fellow, 
For  though  that  beef  be  dear, 

He  giveth  the  parish  paupers 
A  good  dinner  once  a  year ! 

And  all  the  workhouse  children 

He  sets  them  down  in  a  row, 
And  giveth  them  rare  plum-pudding, 

And  two  pence  a-piece  also. 

Oh,  could  you  have  seen  those  paupers, 
Have  heard  those  children  young, 

You  would  wish  with  them  that  Christmaa 
Came  oft  and  tarried  long ! 

He  must  be  a  rich  old  fellow,  — 

What  money  he  gives  away ! 
There  is  not  a  lord  in  England 

Could  equal  him  any  day  ! 

Good  luck  unto  old  Christmas, 

And  long  life,  let  us  sing, 
For  he  doth  more  good  unto  the  poor 

Than  many  a  crowned  king ! 

8* 


(90) 


THE  TWELFTH  HOUR 

MY  friends,  the  spirit  is  at  peace ; 

Oh  do  not  trouble  me  with  tears ; 
Petition  rather  my  release, 

Nor  covet  for  me  length  of  years, 
Which  are  but  weariness  and  wo  ; 
Resign  me,  friends,  before  I  go ! 

I 

I  know  how  strong  are  human  ties ; 

I  know  how  strong  is  human  fear ! 
But  visions  open  to  mine  eyes, 

And  words  of  power  are  in  mine  ear ; 
My  friends,  my  friends,  can  ye  not  see, 
Nor  hear  what  voices  speak  to  me  ? 

"  Thou  human  soul,"  they  seem  to  say, 

"  We  are  commissioned  from  above, 
Through  the  dark  portal  to  convey 

Thee  to  the  paradise  of  love ; 
Thou  needest  not  shrink,  thou  need'st  not  fear 
We,  thy  sure  help,  are  gathered  near !  i 


"  Thy  weakness  on  our  strength  confide ; 

Thy  doubt  upon  our  steadfast  trust ; 
And  rise  up,  pure  and  glorified, 

From  thine  infirm  and  sinful  dust, 
Rise  up,  rise  up !  the  eternal  day 
Begins  to  dawn  —  why  wilt  thou  stay  ? 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  91 

"  Look  forth  —  the  day  begins  to  dawn ; 

The  future  openeth  to  thy  view ; 
The  veil  of  mystery  is  undrawn ; 

The  old  things  are  becoming  new ; 
The  night  of  time  is  passing  by : 

Poor  trembler,  do  not  fear  to  die ! 


"  Come,  come  !  the  gates  of  pearl  unfold 
The  eternal  glory  shines  on  thee  ; 

Body,  relax  thy  lingering  hold, 
And  set  the  struggling  spirit  free  !  " 

'Tis  done,  'tis  done !  —  before  my  sight 

Opens  the  awful  infinite : 

I  see,  I  hear,  I  live  anew  ! 

Oh  friends,  dear  friends,  —  adieu,  adieu  ! 


THE  BLIND  BOY  AND  HIS  SISTER. 

"On  brother,"  said  fair  Annie, 

To  the  blind  boy  at  her  side : 
"  Would  thou  could'st  see  the  sunshine  lie 
On  hill  and  valley,  and  the  sky 
Hung  like  a  glorious  canopy 

O'er  all  things  far  and  wide ! 


92  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"Would  thou  could'st  see  the  waters 

In  many  a  distant  glen  ; 
The  mountain  flocks  that  graze  around ; 
Nay,  even  this  patch  of  stony  ground, 
These  crags,  with  silver  lichen  crowned, 

I  would  that  thou  could'st  ken ! 

"  Would  thou  could'st  see  my  face,  brother, 

As  well  as  I  see  thine  ; 
For  always  what  I  cannot  see 
It  is  but  half  a  joy  to  me. 
Brother,  I  often  weep  for  thee, 

Yet  thou  dost  ne'er  repine ! " 

"  And  why  should  I  repine,  Annie  ?  " 
Said  the  blind  boy  with  a  smile  ; 

"  I  ken  the  blue  sky  and  the  grey ; 

The  sunny  and  the  misty  day : 

The  moorland  valley  stretched  away 
For  man  and  many  a  mile ! 

I  ken  the  night  and  day,  Annie, 

For  all  ye  may  believe  ; 
And  often  in  my  spirit  lies 
A  clear  light  as  of  mid-day  skies ; 
And  splendors  on  my  vision  rise, 

Like  gorgeous  hues  of  eve. 

"  I  sit  upon  the  stone,  Annie, 

Beside  our  cottage  door, 
And  people  say,  '  that  boy  is  blind,* 
And  pity  me,  although  I  find 
A  world  of  beauty  in  my  mind, 

A  never-ceasing  store. 


UOWITT'S  POEMS.  98 

"  I  hear  you  talk  of  mountains, 

The  beautiful,  the  grand ; 
Of  splintered  peaks  so  gray  and  toll ; 
Of  lake,  and  glen,  and  waterfall ; 
Of  flowers  and  trees  ;  —  I  ken  them  all  ;-— 

Their  difference  understand. 

"  The  harebell  and  the  gowan 

Are  not  alike  to  me, 
Are  different  as  the  herd  and  flock, 
The  blasted  pine-tree  of  the  rock, 
The  waving  birch,  the  broad,  green  oak, 

The  river  and  the  sea. 

"And  oh,  the  heavenly  music, 

That  as  I  sit  alone, 
Comes  to  mine  inward  sense  as  clear 
As  if  the  angel  voices  were 
Singing  to  harp  and  dulcimer 

Before  the  mighty  throne ! 

"  It  is  not  as  of  outward  sound, 

Of  breeze,  or  singing  bird ; 
But  wondrous  melody  refined  ; 
A  gift  of  God  unto  the  blind ; 
An  inward  harmony  of  mind, 

By  inward  senses  heard ! 

"  And  all  the  old-world  stories 

That  neighbors  tell  o'nights  ; 
Of  fairies  on  the  fairy  mound, 
Of  brownies  dwelling  under  ground, 
Of  elves  careering  round  and  round, 

Of  fays  and  water-sprites  ; 


94  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  All  this  to  me  is  pleasantness,  — 

Is  all  a  merry  show  ; 
I  see  the  antic  people  play,  — 
Brownie  and  kelpie,  elf  and  fay, 
In  a  sweet  country  far  away, 

¥et  where  I  seem  to  go. 

"  But  better  far  than  this,  Annie, 
Is  when  thou  read'st  to  me 

Of  the  dear  Saviour  meek  and  kind, 

And  how  he  healed  the  lame  and  blind. 

Am  I  not  healed  !  —  for  in  my  mind 
His  blessed  form  I  see  ? 

"  Oh,  love  is  not  of  sight,  Annie, 

Is  not  of  outward  things  ; 
For,  in  my  inmost  soul  I  know, 
His  pity  for  all  mortal  wo ; 
His  words  of  love,  spoke  long  ago, 

Unseal  its  deepest  springs ! 

"  Then  do  not  mourn  for  me,  Annie. 

Because  that  I  am  blind  ;  — 
The  beauty  of  all  outward  sight ; 
The  wondrous  shows  of  day  and  night ; 
All  love,  all  faith,  and  all  delight, 

Are  strong  in  heart  and  mind ! " 


(95) 


EASTER    HYMNS. 
HYMN   I. 

THE    TWO    MARTS 

OH  dark  day  of  sorrow, 
Amazement  and  pain ; 
When  the  promise  was  bhgnted, 
The  given  was  ta'en ! 

When  the  Master  no  longer 
A  refuge  should  prove ; 
And  evil  was  stronger 
Than  mercy  and  love ! 

Oh  dark  day  of  sorrow, 
Abasement  and  dread, 
When  the  Master  beloved 
Was  one  with  the  dead ! 

We  sate  in  our  anguish 
Afar  off  to  see, 
For  we  surely  believed  not 
This  sorrow  could  be ! 

But  the  trust  of  our  spirits 
Was  all  overthrown ; 


96  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

And  we  wept,  in  our  anguish, 
Astonished,  alone ! 

i 

At  even  they  laid  him 
With  aloes  and  myrrh, 
In  fine  linen  wound,  in 
A  new  sepulchre. 

There,  there  will  we  seek  him : 
Will  wash  him  with  care ; 
Anoint  him  with  spices : 
And  mourn  for  him  there. 

Oh  strangest  of  sorrow  ! 
Oh  vision  of  fear ! 
New  grief  is  around  us  — 
The  Lord  is  not  here ! 


HYMN  II. 

THE     ANGEL. 

WOMEN,  why  shrink  ye 
With  wonder  and  dread  ?  — 
Seek  not  the  living 
Where  slumbers  the  dead ! 

Weep  not,  nor  tremble ; 
And  be  not  dismayed  ; 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  97 

The  Lord  hath  arisen ! 
See  where  he  was  laid ! 

The  grave-clothes,  behold  them  • 
The  spices  ;  the  bier ; 
The  napkin  that  bound  him ; 
But  he  is  not  here  ! 

Death  could  not  hold  him ; 
The  grave  is  a  prison 
That  keeps  not  the  living ; 
The  Christ  has  arisen ! 


HYMN   HI. 

THE    LORD   JESUS. 

WHY  are  ye  troubled  ? 
Why  weep  ye  and  grieve  ? 
What  the  prophets  have  written, 
Why  slowly  believe  ? 

'Tis  I,  be  not  doubtful ! 
Why  ponder  ye  so  ? 
Behold  in  my  body 
The  marks  of  my  wo ! 

The  willing  have  suffered ; 
The  chosen  been  slain ; 


88  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

The  end  is  accomplished ! 
Behold  me  again ! 

Death  has  been  conquered  — 
The  grave  has  been  riven  — 
For  sin  a  remission 
Hath  freely  been  given ! 

Fearless  in  spirit, 
Yet  meek  as  the  dove, 
Go  preach  to  the  nations 
This  gospel  of  love. 

For  the  might  of  the  mighty 
Shall  o'er  you  be  cast ; 
And  I  will  be  with  you, 
My  friends,  to  the  last 

I  go  to  the  Father, 
But  I  will  prepare 
Your  mansions  of  glory, 
And  welcome  you  there. 

There  life  never-ending ; 
There  bliss  that  endures ; 
There  love  never-changing, 
My  friends,  shall  be  yours ! 

But  the  hour  is  accomplished ! 
My  children,  we  sever — 
But  be  ye  not  troubled, 
I  am  with  you  for  ever ' 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  90 


HYMN  IV. 

THE     ELEVEN. 

THE  Lord  is  ascending !  — 
Rich  welcomes  to  give  him: 
See,  angels  descending !  — 
The  heavens  receive  him ! 

See,  angels,  archangels, 
Bend  down  to  adore !  — 
The  Lord  hath  ascended, 
We  see  him  no  more  ! 

The  Master  is  taken  ; 
The  friend  hath  departed ; 
Yet  we  are  not  forsaken, 
Nor  desolate-hearted ! 

The  Master  is  taken  ; 
The  holy,  the  kind ; 
But  the  joy  of  his  presence 
Remaineth  behind ! 

Our  hearts  burned  within  us 
To  hear  but  the  word 
Which  he  spake,  ere  our  spirits 
Acknowledged  the  Lord ! 

The  Lord  hath  ascended ! 
Our  hope  is  secure, 


100  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

We  trusted  not  lightly ,  — 
The  promise  is  sure  ; 

The  Lord  hath  ascended ; 
And  we  his  true-hearted, 
Go  forth  with  rejoicing, 
Though  he  hath  departed  ! 


THE  POOR  CHILD'S  HYMN 

WE  are  poor  and  lowly  born ; 

With  the  poor  we  bide  ; 
Labor  is  our  heritage, 

Care  and  want  beside. 
What  of  this  ?  our  blessed  Lord 

Was  of  lowly  birth, 
And  poor,  toiling  fishermen 

Were  his  friends  on  earth! 

We  are  ignorant  and  young ; 

Simple  children  all ; 
Gifted  with  but  humble  powers, 

And  of  learning  small. 
What  of  this  ?  our  blessed  Lord 

Loved  such  as  we ;  — 
How  he  blessed  the  little  ones 

Sitting  on  his  knee ! 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  101 


THE  OLD  FRIEND  AND  THE  NEW 

MY  old  friend,  he  was  a  good  old  friend, 
And  I  thought,  like  a  fool,  his  face  to  mend ; 
I  got  another ;  but  ah !  to  my  cost 
I  found  him  unlike  the  one  I  had  lost ! 
I  and  my  friend,  we  were  bred  together :  — 
He  had  a  smile  like  the  summer  weather ; 
A  kind  warm  heart ;  and  a  hand  as  free :  — 
My  friend,  he  was  all  the  world  to  me ! 

I  could  sit  with  him  and  crack  many  a  joke, 
And  talk  of  old  times  and  the  village  folk ; 
He  had  been  with  us  at  the  Christmas  time ; 
He  knew  every  tree  we  used  to  climb  ; 
And  where  we  played  ;  and  what  befell, 
My  dear  old  friend  remembered  well. 
It  did  me  good  but  to  see  his  face ; 
And  Pve  put  another  friend  in  his  place ! 
I  wonder  how  such  a  thing  could  be, 
For  my  old  friend  would  not  have  slighted  me ! 

Oh  my  fine  new  friend,  he  is  smooth  and  bland, 

With  a  jeweled  ring  or  two  on  his  hand ; 

He  visits  my  lord  and  my  lady  fair ; 

He  hums  the  last  new  opera  air. 

He  takes  not  the  children  on  his  knee  ; 

My  faithful  hound  reproacheth  me, 

For  he  snarls  when  my  new  friend  draweth  near, 

But  my  good  old  friend  to  the  brute  was  dear !] 

I  wonder  how  I  such  a  thing  could  do, 

As  change  the  old  friend  for  the  new ! 
9* 


102  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

My  rare  old  friend,  he  read  the  plays, 

That  were  written  in  Master  Shakspeare's  days ; 

He  found  in  them  wit  and  mo;  al  good :  — 

My  new  friend  thinks  them  coarse  and  rude :  — 

And  many  a  pleasant  song  he  sung, 

Because  they  were  made  when  we  were  young; 

He  was  not  too  grand,  not  he,  to  know 

The  merry  old  songs  made 'long  ago. 

He  writ  his  name  on  the  window-pane ;  — 

It  was  cracked  by  my  new  friend's  riding-cane ! 

My  good  old  friend,  "  he  tirled  at  the  pin," 
He  opened  the  door  and  entered  in  ; 
We  were  all  glad  to  see  his  face, 
As  he  took  at  the  fire  his  'customed  place, 
And  the  little  children,  loud  in  glee, 
They  welcomed  him  as  they  welcomed  me 
He  knew  our  griefs,  our  joys  he  shared ; 
There  cannot  be  friend  with  him  compared , 
We  had  tried  him  long,  had  found  him  true  ! 
Why  changed  I  the  old  friend  for  the  new  ? 

My  new  friend  cometh  in  lordly  state ; 

He  peals  a  startling  ring  at  the  gate  ; 

There's  hurry  and  pomp,  there's  pride  and  din, 

And  my  new  friend  bravely  entereth  in. 

I  bring  out  the  noblest  wines  for  cheer, 

I  make  him  a  feast  that  costeth  dear  ; 

But  he  knows  not  what  in  my  heart  lies  deep ;  -— 

He  may  laugh  with  me,  but  never  shall  weep, 

For  there  is  no  bond  between  us  twain; 

And  I  sigh  for  my  dear  old  friend  again ; 

And  thus,  too  late,  I  bitterly  rue 

That  I  changed  the  old  friend  for  the  new ! 


(103) 


MABEL   ON   MIDSUMMER   DAY. 

A    STORY    OF    THE    OLDEN    TIME. 
PART     I. 

"  ARISE,  my  maiden,  Mabel," 

The  mother  said,  "  arise," 
For  the  golden  sun  of  Midsummer 

Is  shining  in  the  skies. 

"  Arise,  my  little  maiden, 

For  thou  must  speed  away, 
To  wait  upon  thy  grandmother 

This  livelong  summer  day. 

"  And  thou  must  carry  with  thee 

This  wheaten  cake  so  fine  ; 
This  new-made  pat  of  butter ; 

This  little  flask  of  wine  ! 

"  And  tell  the  dear  old  body, 

This  day  I  cannot  come, 
For  the  good  man  went  out  yester  morn, 

And  he  is  not  come  home. 

"  And  more  than  this,  poor  Amy 

Upon  my  knee  doth  lie  ; 
I  fear  me,  with  this  fever-pain 

That  little  child  will  die ' 


104  no  WITT'S  POEMS. 

"  And  thou  canst  help  thy  grandmother ; 

The  table  thou  can'st  spread  ; 
Can'st  feed  the  little  dog  and  bird, 

And  thou  can'st  make  her  bed. 

"  And  thou  can'st  fetch  the  water, 
From  the  lady-well  hard  by ; 

And  thou  can'st  gather  from  the  wood 
The  fagots  brown  and  dry. 

"  Can'st  go  down  to  the  lonesome  glen, 

To  milk  the  mother-ewe  ; 
This  is  the  work,  my  Mabel, 

That  thou  wilt  have  to  do. 

"  But  listen  now,  my  Mabel, 

This  is  Midsummer  day, 
When  all  the  fairy  people 

From  elf-land  come  away. 

"  And  when  thou  art  in  lonesome  glen, 
Keep  by  the  running  burn, 

And  do  not  pluck  the  strawberry-flower, 
Nor  break  the  lady-fern. 

"  But  think  not  of  the  fairy  folk, 
Lest  mischief  should  befall ; 

Think  only  of  poor  Amy, 
And  how  thou  lov'st  us  all. 

"  Yet  keep  good  heart,  my  Mabel, 

If  thou  the  fairies  see, 
And  give  them  kindly  answer, 

If  they  should  speak  to  thee. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  105 

"  And  when  into  the  fir- wood 

Thou  go'st  for  fagots  brown, 
Do  not,  like  idle  children, 

Go  wandering  up  and  down. 

"  But,  fill  thy  little  apron, 

My  child,  with  earnest  speed ; 
And  that  thou  break  no  living  bough 

Within  the  wood,  take  heed. 

"  For  they  are  spiteful  brownies 

Who  in  the  wood  abide, 
So  be  thou  careful  of  this  thing, 

Lest  evil  should  betide. 

"  But  think  not,  little  Mabel, 

Whilst  thou  art  in  the  wood, 
Of  dwarfish,  willful  brownies, 

But  of  the  Father  good. 

"  And  when  thou  goest  to  the  spring 

To  fetch  the  water  thence, 
Do  not  disturb  the  little  stream, 

Lest  this  should  give  offence. 

"  For  the  queen  of  all  the  fairies 

She  loves  that  water  bright ; 
I've  seen  her  drinking  there  myself 

On  many  a  summer  night. 

"  But  she's  a  gracious  lady, 

And  her  thou  need'st  not  fear ; 
Only  disturb  thou  not  the  stream, 


Nor  spill  the  water  cjear ! 


i  " 


106  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Now  all  this  will  I  heed,  mother, 
Will  no  word  disobey, 

And  wait  upon  the  grandmother 
This  livelong  summer  day ! n 


PART  II. 

AWAY  tripped  little  Mabel, 

With  the  wheaten  cake  so  fine ; 

With  the  new-made  pat  of  butter, 
And  the  little  flask  of  wine. 

And  long  before  the  sun  was  hot, 
And  morning  mists  had  cleared, 

Beside  the  good  old  grandmother 
The  willing  child  appeared. 

And  all  her  mother's  message 
She  told  with  right  good- will, 

How  that  the  father  was  away, 
And  the  little  child  was  ill. 

And  then  she  swept  the  hearth  up  clean, 

And  then  the  table  spread ; 
And  next  she  fed  the  dog  and  bird  • 

And  then  she  made  the  bed 


HOWITT'S  POEM8.  107 

"  And  go  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"  Ten  paces  down  the  dell, 
And  bring  in  water  for  the  day  ; 

Thou  know'st  the  lady-well !  " 

The  first  time  that  good  Mabel  went, 

Nothing  at  all  saw  she 
Except  a  bird  —  a  sky-blue  bird  — 

That  sate  upon  a  tree. 

The  next  time  that  good  Mabel  went, 

There  sate  a  lady  bright 
Beside  the  well,  —  a  lady  small, 

All  clothed  in  green  and  white. 

A  curtsey  low  made  Mabel, 

And  then  she  stooped  to  fill 
Her  pitcher  at  the  sparkling  spring, 

But  no  drop  did  she  spill. 

"  Thou  art  a  handy  maiden, 

The  fairy  lady  said ; 
"  Thou  hast  not  spilled  a  drop,  nor  yet 

The  fair  spring  troubled  ! 

"  And  for  this  thing  which  thou  hast  done, 

Yet  may'st  not  understand, 
I  give  to  thee  a  better  gift 

Than  houses  or  than  land. 

"Thou  shalt  do  well,  whatever  thou  dost, 

As  thou  hast  done  this  day  ; 
Shalt  have  the  will  and  power  to  please, 

And  shalt  be  loved  alway ! " 


108  no  WITT'S  POEMS. 

Thus  having  said,  she  passed  from  sight, 

And  naught  could  Mabel  see, 
But  the  little  bird,  the  sky-blue  bird 

Upon  the  leafy  tree. 

—  "  And  now  go,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"  And  fetch  in  fagots  dry  ; 
All  in  the  neighboring  fir- wood, 

Beneath  the  trees  they  lie." 

Away  went  kind,  good  Mabel, 

Into  the  fir-wood  near, 
Where  all  the  ground  was  dry  and  brown, 

And  the  grass  grew  thin  and  sere. 

She  did  not  wander  up  and  down, 

Nor  yet  a  live  branch  pull, 
But  steadily,  of  the  fallen  boughs 

She  picked  her  apron  full. 

And  when  the  wild- wood  brownies 

Came  sliding  to  her  mind, 
She  drove  them  thence,  as  she  was  told, 

With  home-thoughts  sweet  and  kind. 

But  all  that  while  the  brownies 

Within  the  fir-wood  still, 
They  watched  her  how  she  picked  the  wood, 

And  strove  to  do  no  ill. 

"  And  oh,  but  she  is  small  and  neat," 
Said  one,  "  'twere  shame  to  spite 

A  creature  so  demure  and  meek, 
A  creature  harmless  quite ! " 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  109 

«  Look  only,"  said  another, 

"  At  her  little  gown  of  blue ; 
At  her  kerchief  pinned  about  her  head, 

And  at  her  little  shoe  !  " 

"  Oh,  but  she  is  a  comely  child," 

Said  a  third,  "  and  we  will  lay 
A  good-luck-penny  in  her  path, 

A  boon  for  her  this  day,  — 
Seeing  she  broke  no  living  wood, 

No  live  thing  did  affray." 

With  that  the  smallest  penny, 

Of  the  finest  silver  ore, 
Upon  the  dry  and  slippery  path, 

Lay  Mabel's  feet  before. 

With  joy  she  picked  the  penny  up, 

The  fairy  penny  good  ; 
And  with  her  fagots  dry  and  brown 

Went  wondering  from  the  wood. 

"  Now  she  has  that,"  said  the  brownies, 

"  Let  flax  be  ever  so  dear, 
Will  buy  her  clothes  of  the  very  best, 

For  many  and  many  a  year ! " 

—  "  And  go,  now,"  said  the  grandmother. 

Since  falling  is  the  dew, 
Go  down  into  the  lonesome  glen, 

And  milk  the  mother-ewe  ! " 


All  down  into  the  lonesome  glen, 

Through  copses  thick  and  wild  ; 
10 


110  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Through  moist,  rank  grass,  by  trickling  streams, 
Went  on  the  willing  child. 

And  when  she  came  to  lonesome  glen, 

She  kept  beside  the  burn, 
And  neither  plucked  the  strawberry-flower, 

Nor  broke  the  lady-fern. 

And  while  she  milked  the  mother-ewe 

Within  the  lonesome  glen, 
She  wisned  that  little  Amy 

Were  strong  and  well  again. 

And  soon  as  she  had  thought  this  thought. 

She  heard  a  coming  sound, 
As  if  a  thousand  fairy  folk 

Were  gathering  all  around. 

And  then  she  heard  a  little  voice, 

Shrill  as  the  midge's  wing, 
That  spake  aloud,  "  A  human  child 

Is  here  —  yet  mark  this  thing ! 

"The  lady-fern  is  aH  nnbroke, 

The  strawberry-flower  unta'en ! 
What  shall  be  done  for  her,  who  still 

From  mischief  can  refrain  ?  " 


"  Give  her  a  fairy-cake,"  said  one, 
"  Grant  her  a  wish,"  said  three ; 

"  The  latest  wish  that  she  hath  wished,* 
Said  all,  «  whate'er  it  be  !  " 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  Ill 

—  Kind  Mabel  heard  the  words  they  spake, 
And  from  the  lonesome  glen, 

Unto  the  good  old  grandmother 
Went  gladly  back  again. 

Thus  happened  it  to  Mabel 

On  that  midsummer  day, 
And  these  three  fairy  blessings 

She  took  with  her  away. 

—  'Tis  good  to  make  all  duty  sweet, 
To  be  alert  and  kind : 

Tis  good,  like  little  Mabel, 
To  have  a  willing  mind ! 


i 
112) 


BIRDS    AND    FLOWERS 

AND    OTHER 

COUNTRY   THINGS. 

THE  STORMY  PETEREL. 

O  STORMY,  stormy  Peterel, 

Come  rest  thee,  bird,  awhile ; 

There  is  no  storm,  believe  me, 
Anigh  this  summer  isle. 

Come,  rest  thy  waving  pinions  ; 

Alight  thee  down  by  me  ; 
And  tell  me  somewhat  of  the  lore 

Thou  learnest  on  the  sea ! 

Dost  hear  beneath  the  ocean 

The  gathering  tempest  form  ? 

See'st  thou  afar  the  little  cloud 
That  grows  into  the  storm  ? 

How  is  it  in  the  billowy  depths 

Doth  sea-weed  heave  and  swell  ? 

And  is  a  sound  of  coming  wo 

Rung  from  each  caverned  shell  ? 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  ]]3 

Dost  watch  the  stormy  sunset 

In  tempests  of  the  west ; 
And  see  the  old  moon  riding  slow, 

With  the  new  moon  on  her  breast  ? 

Dost  mark  the  billows  heaving 

Before  the  coming  gale  ; 
And  scream  for  joy  of  every  sound 

That  turns  the  seaman  pale  ? 

Are  gusty  tempests  mirth  to  thee  ? 

Lov'st  thou  the  lightning's  flash ; 
The  booming  of  the  mountain  waves  — 

The  thunder's  deafening  crash  ? 

O  stormy,  stormy  Peterel, 

Thou  art  a  bird  of  wo  ! 
Yet  would  I  thou  could'st  tell  me  half 

Of  the  misery  thou  dost  know ! 

There  was  a  ship  went  down  last  night,  — 

A  good  ship  and  a  fair ; 
A  costly  freight  within  her  lay, 

And  many  a  soul  was  there  ! 

The  night-black  storm  was  over  her, 

And  'neath  the  caverned  wave, 
In  all  her  strength  she  perished, 

Nor  skill  of  man  could  save. 

The  cry  of  her  great  agony 

Went  upward  to  the  sky ; 
She  perished  in  her  strength  and  pride, 

Nor  human  aid  was  nigh. 
10* 


114  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

But  thou,  O  stormy  Peterel, 

Went'st  screaming  o'er  the  foam ; 

Are  there  no  tidings  from  that  ship 
Which  thou  canst  carry  home  ? 


Yes !    He  who  raised  the  tempest  up 
Sustained  each  drooping  one  ; 

And  God  was  present  in  the  storm, 
Though  human  aid  was  none  ' 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  GARDEN. 

AH  yes,  the  poor  man's  garden  ! 

It  is  great  joy  to  me, 
This  little,  precious  piece  of  ground 

Before  his  door  to  see  ! 


The  rich  man  has  his  gardeners,  — 
His  gardeners  young  and  old ; 

He  never  takes  a  spade  in  hand, 
Nor  worketh  in  the  mould. 


It  is  not  with  the  poor  man  so, 

Wealth,  servants,  he  has  none  ; 

And  all  the  work  that's  done  for  him, 
Must  by  himself  be  done. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  115 


All  day  upon  some  weary  task 
He  toileth  with  good  will ; 

And  back  he  comes,  at  set  of  sun, 
His  garden-plot  to  till. 

The  rich  man  in  his  garden  walks, 
And  'neath  his  garden  trees  ; 

Wrapped  in  a  dream  of  other  things, 
He  seems  to  take  his  ease. 

One  moment  he  beholds  his  flowers, 
The  next  they  are  forgot : 

He  eateth  of  his  rarest  fruits 
As  though  he  ate  them  not. 

It  is  not  with  the  poor  man  so,  — 
He  knows  each  inch  of  ground, 

And  every  single  plant  and  flower 
That  grows  within  its  bound. 

He  knows  where  grow  his  wall-flowers, 
And  when  they  will  be  out ; 

His  moss-rose,  and  convolulus 
That  twines  his  pales  about 

He  knows  his  red  sweet-williams  ; 

And  the  stocks  that  cost  him  dear,  - 
That  well-set  row  of  crimson  stocks, 

For  he  bought  the  seed  last  year. 

And  though  unto  the  rich  man 

The  cost  of  flowers  is  naught, 

A  sixpence  to  a  poor  man   • 

Is  toil,  and  care,  and  thought 


116  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

And  here  is  his  potatoe-bed, 

All  well-grown,  strong,  and  green ; 
How  could  a  rich  man's  heart  leap  up 

At  anything  so  mean ! 

But  he,  the  poor  man,  sees  his  crop, 
And  a  thankful  man  is  he, 

For  he  thinks  all  through  the  winter 
How  rich  his  board  will  be. 

And  how  his  merry  little  ones 
Beside  the  fire  will  stand, 

Each  with  a  large  potatoe 

In  a  round  and  rosy  hand. 

The  rich  man  has  his  wall-fruits, 
And  his  delicious  vines ; 

His  fruit  for  every  season ! 
His  melons  and  his  pines. 

The  poor  man  has  his  gooseberries ; 

His  currants  white  and  red ; 
His  apple  and  his  damson  tree, 

And  a  little  strawberry-bed. 

A  happy  man  he  thinks  himself, 
A  man  that's  passing  well,  — 

To  have  some  fruit  for  the  children, 
And  some  besides  to  sell. 

Around  the  rich  man's  trellised  bower 
Gay,  costly  creepers  run ; 

The  poor  man  has  his  scarlet-beans 
To  screen  him  from  the  sun. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  117 

And  there  before  the  little  bench, 

O'ershadowed  by  the  bower, 
Grow  southern-wood  and  lemon-thyme, 

Sweet-pea  and  gilliflower ; 
I] 

And  pinks  and  clove-carnations, 

Rich  scented,  side  by  side  ; 
And  at  each  end  a  hollyhock, 

With  an  edge  of  London-pride. 

And  here  comes  the  old  grandmother, 
When  her  day's  work  is  done  ; 

And  here  they  bring  the  sickly  babe, 
To  cheer  it  in  the  sun. 

And  here,  on  Sabbath  mornings, 
The  good  man  comes  to  get 

His  Sunday  nosegay,  moss-rose  bud, 
White  pink,  and  mignonette. 

And  here,  on  Sabbath  evenings, 

Until  the  stars  are  out, 
With  a  little  one  in  either  hand, 

He  walketh  all  about 

For  though  his  garden-plot  is  small, 

Him  doth  it  satisfy  ; 
For  there's  no  inch  of  all  his  ground 

That  does  not  fill  his  eye. 

It  is  not  with  the  rich  man  thus  ; 

For  though  his  grounds  are  wide, 
He  looks  beyond,  and  yet  beyond, 

With  soul  unsatisfied. 


lid  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Yes !  in  the  poor  man's  garden  grow- 
Far  more  than  herbs  and  flowers ;  — 

Kind  thoughts,  contentment,  peace  of  mind, 
And  joy  for  weary  hours. 


THE  OAK-TREE. 

SING  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  : 
Sing  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

That  groweth  green  and  good ; 
That  groweth  broad  and  branching 

Within  the  forest  shade ; 
That  groweth  now,  and  yet  shall  grow 

When  we  are  lowly  laid  ! 

The  Oak-Tree  was  an  acorn  once, 

And  fell  upon  the  earth ; 
And  sun  and  showers  nourished  it, 

And  gave  the  Oak-Tree  birth. 
The  little  sprouting  Oak-Tree  ! 

Two  leaves  it  had  at  first, 
Till  sun  and  showers  had  nourished  it, 

Then  out  the  branches  burst. 

The  little  sapling  Oak-Tree  ! 
Its  root  was  like  a  thread 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  119 

Till  the  kindly  earth  had  nourished  it, 

Then  out  it  freely  spread : 
On  this  side  and  on  that  side 

It  grappled  with  the  ground ; 
And  in  the  ancient,  rifted  rock 

Its  firmest  footing  found. 

The  winds  came,  and  the  rain  fell ; 

The  gusty  tempests  blew  ; 
All,  all  were  friends  to  the  Oak-Tree, 

And  stronger  yet  it  grew. 
The  boy  that  saw  the  acorn  fall, 

He  feeble  grew  and  gray  ; 
But  the  Oak  was  still  a  thriving  tree, 

And  strengthened  every  day  ! 

Four  centuries  grows  the  Oak-Tree, 

Nor  doth  its  verdure  fail ; 
Its  heart  is  like  the  iron- wood, 

Its  bark  like  plated  mail. 
Now,  cut  us  down  the  Oak-Tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
And  of  its  timbers  stout  and  strong 

We'll  build  a  vessel  good! 

The  Oak-Tree  of  the  forest 

Both  east  and  west  shall  fly  ; 
And  the  blessings  of  a  thousand  lands 

Upon  our  ship  shall  lie ! 
For  she  shall  not  be  a  man-of-war, 

Nor  a  pirate  shall  she  be :  — 
But  a  noble,  Christian  merchant-ship 

To  sail  upon  the  sea. 


120  HOWITT'S  POEMS 

Then  sing  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

The  monarch  of  the  wood ; 
Sing  for  the  Oak-Tree, 

That  groweth  green  and  good  ; 
That  groweth  broad  and  branching, 

Within  the  forest-shade ; 
That  groweth  now,  and  yet  shall  grow, 

When  we  are  lowly  laid  ! 


MORNING  THOUGHTS. 

THE  summer  sun  is  shining 

Upon  a  world  so  bright ! 
The  dew  upon  each  grassy  blade, 
The  golden  light,  the  depth  of  shade, 
All  seem  as  they  were  only  made 

To  minister  delight 

From  giant  trees,  strong  branched, 
And  all  their  veined  leaves  ; 

From  little  birds  that  madly  sing ; 

From  insects  fluttering  on  the  wing ; 

Ay,  from  the  very  meanest  thing 
My  spirit  joy  recieves. 

I  think  of  angel  voices, 

When  the  birds'  songs  I  hear ; 
Of  that  celestial  city,  bright 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

With  jacinth,  gold,  and  chrysolite, 
When,  with  its  blazing  pomp  of  light, 
The  morning  doth  appear ! 

I  think  of  that  great  River 

That  from  the  Throne  flows  free  ; 

Of  weary  pilgrims  on  its  brink, 

Who,  thirsting,  have  come  down  to  drink ; 

Of  that  unfailing  Stream  I  think, 
When  earthly  streams  I  see ! 

I  think  of  pain  and  dying, 

As  that  which  is  but  naught, 
When  glorious  morning,  warm  and  bright, 
With  all  its  voices  of  delight, 
From  the  chill  darkness  of  the  night, 

Like  a  new  life,  is  brought 

1  think  of  human  sorrow 

But  as  of  clouds  that  brood 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  day, 
And  the  next  moment  pass  away ; 
And  with  a  trusting  heart  I  say 

Thank  God,  all  things  are  good! 
11 


(122) 


THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 

GOD  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

We  might  have  had  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours, 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 

The  ore  within  the  mountain  mine 

Requireth  none  to  grow ; 
Nor  doth  it  need  the  lotus-flower 

To  make  the  river  flow. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain , 
The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 

And  the  herb  that  keepeth  life  in  man 
Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 

And  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 
All  dyed  with  rainbow-light, 

All  fashioned  with  supremest  grace, 
Upspringing  day  and  night ;  — 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 
And  on  the  mountains  high, 

And  in  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  123 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not  — 
Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ?  — 

To  minister  delight  to  man, 
To  beautify  the  earth ; 


To  comfort  man  —  to  whisper  hope, 
Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim, 

For  who  so  careth  for  the  flowers, 
Will  much  more  care  for  him ! 


SUNSHINE. 

I  LOVE  the  sunshine  everywhere,  — 
In  wood,  and  field,  and  glen ; 

I  love  it  in  the  busy  haunts 
Of  town-imprisoned  men. 

I  love  it  when  it  streameth  in 

The  humble  cottage  door 
And  casts  the  checkered  casement  shade 

Upon  the  red-brick  floor. 

I  love  it  where  the  children  lie 
Deep  in  the  clovery  grass, 

To  watch  among  the  twining  roots 
The  gold-green  beetles  pass. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

I  love  it  on  the  breezy  sea, 

To  glance  on  sail  and  oar, 
While  the  great  waves,  like  molten  glass, 

Come  leaping  to  the  shore. 

I  love  it  on  the  mountain-tops, 

Where  lies  the  thawless  snow, 

And  half  a  kingdom,  bathed  in  light, 
Lies  stretching  out  below. 

And  when  it  shines  in  forest-glades, 
Hidden,  and  green,  and  cool, 

Through  mossy  boughs  and  veined  leaves, 
How  is  it  beautiful ! 

How  beautiful  on  little  stream, 
When  sun  and  shade  at  play, 

Make  silvery  meshes,  while  the  brook 
Goes  singing  on  its  way. 

How  beautiful,  where  dragon-flies 

Are  wondrous  to  behold, 
With  rainbow  wings  of  gauzy  pearl, 

And  bodies  blue  and  gold ! 

How  beautiful,  on  harvest  slopes, 

To  see  the  sunshine  lie ! 
Or  on  t5ie  paler  reaped  fields, 

Where  yellow  shocks  stand  high ! 

Oh,  yes  !  I  love  the  sunshine ! 

Like  kindness  or  like  mirth 
Upon  a  human  countenance, 

Is  sunshine  on  the  earth  ' 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  135 

Upon  the  earth ;  upon  the  sea ; 

And  through  the  crystal  air, 
Or  piled-up  cloud ;  the  gracious  sun 

Is  glorious  everywhere ! 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

• 

PUT  up  thy  work,  dear  mother ; 

Dear  mother  come  with  me, 
For  I've  found  within  the  garden, 

The  beautiful  sweet-pea ! 


And  rows  of  stately  hollyhocks 
Down  by  the  garden-wall, 

All  yellow,  white,  and  crimson, 
So  many-hued  and  tall ! 

And  bending  on  their  stalks,  mother, 
Are  roses  white  and  red  ; 

And  pale-stemmed  balsams  all  a-blow, 
On  every  garden-bed. 


Put  up  thy  work,  I  pray  thee, 

And  come  out,  mother  dear ! 
We  used  to  buy  these  flowers, 

But  they  are  growing  here ' 
•11* 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Oh,  mother !  little  Amy 

Would  have  loved  these  flowers  to  see ; — 
Dost  remember  how  we  tried  to  get 

For  her  a  pink  sweet-pea  ? 

Dost  remember  how  she  loved 

Those  rose-leaves  pale  and  sere  * 

I  wish  she  had  but  lived  to  see 
The  lovely  roses  here  ! 

Put  up  thy  work,  dear  mother, 

And  wipe  those  tears  away 
And  come  into  the  garden 

Before  'tis  set  of  day  ! 


CHILDHOOD. 

OH,  when  I  was  a  little  child, 
My  life  was  full  of  pleasure , 

I  had  four-and-twenty  living  things, 
And  many  another  treasure. 

But  chiefest  was  my  sister  dear, 
Oh,  how  I  loved  my  sister ! 

I  never  played  at  all  with  joy, 

If  from  my  side  I  missed  her. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  127 

I  can  remember  many  a  time, 

Up  in  the  morning  early,  — 
UD  in  the  morn  by  break  of  day, 

When  summer  dews  hung  pearly ; 

Out  in  the  fields  what  joy  it  was, 

While  the  cowslip  yet  was  bending, 

To  see  the  large  round  moon  grow  dim, 
And  the  early  lark  ascending ! 

I  can  remember,  too,  we  rose 

When  the  winter  stars  shone  brightly ; 
'Twas  an  easy  thing  to  shake  off  sleep 

From  spirits  strong  and  sprightly. 

How  beautiful  were  those  winter  skies, 

All  frosty-bright  and  unclouded, 
And  the  garden-trees,  like  cypresses, 

Looked  black,  in  the  darkness  shrouded  ! 

Then  the  deep,  deep  snows  were  beautiful, 
That  fell  through  the  long  night  stilly, 

When  behold,  at  morn,  like  a  silent  plain, 
Lay  the  country  wild  and  hilly ! 

And  the  fir-trees  down  by  the  garden  side, 
In  their  blackness  towered  more  stately ; 

And  the  lower  trees  were  feathered  with  snow, 
That  were  bare  and  brown  so  lately. 

And  then,  when  the  rare  hoar-frost  would  come, 
'Twas  all  like  a  dream  of  wonder, 

When  over  us  grew  the  crystal  trees, 
And  the  crystal  plants  grew  under ! 


128  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

The  garden  all  was  enchanted  land  ; 

All  silent  and  without  motion, 
Like  a  sudden  growth  of  the  stalactite, 

Or  the  corallines  of  ocean ! 

'Twas  all  like  a  fairy  forest  then, 

Where  the  diamond  cards  were  growing, 
And  within  each  branch  the  emerald  green 

And  the  ruby  red  were  glowing. 

I  remember  many  a  day  we  spent 

In  the  bright  hay-harvest  meadow ; 

The  glimmering  heat  of  the  noonday  ground, 
And  the  hazy  depth  of  shadow. 

I  can  remember,  as  to-day 

The  corn-field  and  the  reaping, 

The  rustling  of  the  harvest-sheaves, 
And  the  harvest- wain's  upheaping : 

I  can  feel  this  hour  as  if  I  lay 

Adown  'neath  the  hazel  bushes, 

And  as  if  we  wove,  for  pastime  wild, 
Our  grenadier-caps  of  rushes. 

And  every  flower  within  that  field 

To  my  memory's  eye  comes  flitting, 

The  chiccory-flower,  like  a  blue  cockade, 
For  a  fairy-knight  befitting. 

The  willow-herb  by  the  water  side, 

With  its  fruit-like  scent  so  mellow ; 

The  gentian  blue  on  the  marly  hill, 

And  the  snap-dragon  white  and  yellow. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  129 

I  know  where  the  hawthorn  groweth  red ; 

Where  pink  grows  the  way-side  yarrow ; 
I  remember  the  wastes  of  woad  and  broom, 

And  the  shrubs  of  the  red  rest-harrow. 

I  know  where  the  blue  geranium  grows, 
And  the  stork's-bill  small  and  musky  ; 

Where  the  rich  osmunda  groweth  brown, 
And  the  wormwood  white  and  dusky. 

There  was  a  forest  anigh  our  home,  — 

A  forest  so  old  and  hoary ; 
How  we  loved  in  its  ancient  glooms  to  be, 

And  remember  its  bygone  story ! 

We  sate  in  the  shade  of  its  mighty  trees, 
When  the  summer  noon  was  glowing 

And  heard  in  the  depths  of  its  undergroth 
The  pebbly  waters  flowing. 

We  quenched  our  thirst  at  the  forest-well ; 

We  ate  of  the  forest  berry  ; 
And  the  time  we  spent  in  the  good  greenwood, 
Like  the  times  of  song,  were  merry.' 

We  had  no  crosses  then,  no  cares  ; 

We  were  children  like  yourselves  then ; 
And  we  danced  and  sang,  and  made  us  mirth, 

Like  the  dancing  moonlight  elves  then ! 


.130) 


L'ENVOI. 

Go,  little  book,  and  to  the  young  and  kind, 
Speak  thou  of  pleasant  hours  and  lovely  things , 
Of  fields  and  woods ;  of  sunshine ;  dew  and  wind ; 
Of  mountains,  valleys,  and  of  river-springs  ; 
Speak  thou  of  every  little  bird  that  sings  ; 
Of  every  bright,  sweet-scented  flower  that  blows ; 
But  chiefest  speak  of  Him  whose  mercy  flings  • 
Beauty  and  love  abroad,  and  who  bestows 
Light  to  the  sun  alike,  with  odor  to  the  rose. 

My  little  book,  that  hast  been  unto  me 
Even  as  a  flower  reared  in  a  pleasant  place, 
This  is  the  task  that  I  impose  on  thee  ;  — 
Go  forth ;  with  serious  style  or  playful  grace, 
Winning  young,  gentle  hearts  ;  and  bid  them  trace 
With  thee,  the  spirit  of  LOVE  through  earth  and  air ; 
On  beast  and  bird,  and  on  our  mortal  race, 
So,  do  thy  gracious  work ;  and  onward  fare, 
Leaving,  like  angel-guest,  a  blessing  everywhere  ! 


(131) 


SKETCHES  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY, 


THE  COOT. 

OH  COOT  !  oh  bold,  adventurous  Coot. 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
The  perils  of  that  stormy  time, 

That  bore  thee  to  the  sea ! 

I  saw  thee  on  the  river  fair, 

Within  thy  sedgy  screen  ; 
Around  thee  grew  the  bulrush  tall, 

And  reeds  so  strong  and  green. 

The  kingfisher  came  back  again 

To  view  thy  fairy  place  ; 
The  stately  swan  sailed  statelier  by, 

As  if  thy  home  to  grace. 

But  soon  the  mountain  flood  came  down, 
And  bowed  the  bulrush  strong ; 

And  far  above  those  tall  green  reeds, 
The  waters  poured  along. 

"  And  where  is  she,  the  Water-Coot," 
I  cried,  "  that  creature  good  ?  " 

But  then  I  saw  thee  in  thine  ark, 
Regardless  of  the  flood. 


132  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Amid  the  foaming  waves  thou  sat'st, 
And  steered  thy  little  boat ; 

Thy  nest  of  rush  and  water-reed 
So  bravely  set  afloat. 

And  on  it  went,  and  safely  on 
That  wild  and  stormy  tide  ; 

And  there  thou  sat'st,  a  mother  bird, 
Thy  young  ones  at  thy  side. 

Oh  Coot !  oh  bold,  adventurous  Coot ! 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
The  perils  of  that  stormy  voyage 

That  bore  thee  to  the  sea ! 

Hadst  thou  no  fear,  as  night  came  down 

Upon  thy  watery  way, 
Of  enemies,  and  dangers  dire 

That  round  about  thee  lay  ? 

Didst  thou  not  see  the  falcon  grim 
Swoop  down  as  thou  passed  by  ? 

And  'mong  the  waving  water  flags 
The  lurking  otter  lie  ? 

The  eagle's  scream  came  wildly  near, 

Yet,  caused  it  no  alarm  ? 
Nor  man,  who  seeing  thee,  weak  thing, 

Did  strive  to  do  thee  harm  ? 

And  down  the  foaming  waterfall, 

As  thou  was  borne  along, 
Hadst  thou  no  dread  ?    Oh  daring  bird. 

Thou  hadst  a  spirit  strong ! 

47* 


HO  WITTS    POEMS. 


Yes,  thou  hadst  fear.     But  He  who 

The  sparrows  when  they  fall, 
He  saw  thee,  bird,  and  gave  thee  strength 

To  brave  thy  perils  all. 

He  kept  thy  little  bark  afloat ; 

He  watched  o'er  thine  and  thee ; 
And  safely  through  the  foaming  flood 

Hath  brought  thee  to  the  sea. 


THE  EAGLE. 

No,  not  in  the  meadow,  and  not  on  the  shore, 
And  not  on  the  wide  heath  with  furze  covered  o'er, 
Where  the  cry  of  the  Plover,  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
Give  a  feeling  of  joyful  security  : 
And  not  in  the  woods,  where  the  nightingale's  song, 
From  the  chestnut  and  orange  pours  all  the  day  long ; 
And  not  where  the  Martin  has  built  in  the  eaves, 
And  the  Redbreast  e'er  covered  the  children  with  leaves, 
Shall  ye  find  the  proud  Eagle !     O  no,  come  away  ! 
I  will  show  you  his  dwelling,  and  point  out  his  prey 
Away  !  let  us  go  where  the  mountains  are  high, 
With  tall  splintered  peak  towering  into  the  sky  ; 
Where  old  ruined  castles  are  dreary  and  lone, 
And  seem  as  if  built  for  a  world  that  is  gone ; 
There,  up  on  the  topmost  tower,  black  as  the  night, 
Sits  the  old  monarch  Eagle  in  full  blaze  of  light : 

1-2 


134  HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

He  is  king  of  these  mountains  :  save  him  and  his  mate, 
No  Eagle  dwells  there ;  he  is  lonely  and  great ! 
Look,  look  how  he  sits  !  with  his  keen  glancing  eye, 
And  his  proud  head  thrown  back,  looking  into  the  sky ; 
And  hark  to  the  rush  of  his  out-spreading  wings, 
Like  the  coming  of  tempest,  as  upward  he  springs, 
And  now  how  the  echoing  mountains  are  stirred, 
For  that  was  the  cry  of  the  Eagle  you  heard ! 
Now,  see  how  he  soars !  like  a  speck  in  the  height 
Of  the  blue  vaulted  sky,  and  now  lost  in  the  light ! 
And  now  downward  he  wheels  as  a  shaft  from  a  bow 
By  a  strong  archer  sent  to  the  valleys  below  ! 
And  that  is  the  bleat  of  a  lamb  of  the  flock  ;  — 
One  moment,  and  he  re-ascends  to  the  rock.  — 
Yes,  see  how  the  conqueror  is  winging  his  way, 
And  his  terrible  talons  are  holding  their  prey ! 
Great  bird  of  the  wilderness  !  lonely  and  proud, 
With  a  spirit  unbroken,  a  neck  never  bowed, 
With  an  eye  of  defiance,  august  and  severe, 
Who  scorn'st  an  inferior,  and  hatest  a  peer, 
What  is  it  that  giveth  thee  beauty  and  worth  ? 
Thou  wast  made  for  the  desolate  places  of  earth ; 
To  mate  with  the  tempest ;  to  match  with  the  sea ; 
And  God  showed  his  power  in  the  Lion  and  thee ' 


U35) 


THE  GARDEN. 

I  HAD  a  Garden  when  a  child ; 

I  kept  it  all  in  order ; 
'Twas  full  of  flowers  as  it  could  be, 

And  London-pride  was  its  border. 

And  soon  as  came  the  pleasant  Spring, 

The  singing-birds  built  in  it ; 
The  Blackbird  and  the  Thostle-cock, 

The  Woodlark  and  the  Linnet. 

And  all  within  my  Garden  ran 

A  labyrinth-walk  so  mazy  ; 
In  the  middle  there  grew  a  yellow  Rose, 

At  each  end  a  Michaelmas  Daisy. 

I  had  a  tree  of  Southern  Wood, 

And  two  of  bright  Mezereon ; 
A  Peony  root,  a  snow-white  Phlox, 

And  a  bunch  of  red  Valerian  ; 

A  Lilac  tree,  and  a  Guelder-Rose  ; 

A  Broom,  and  a  Tiger-Lily  ; 
And  I  walked  a  dozen  miles  to  find 

The  true  wild  Daffodilly. 

I  had  Columbines,  both  pink  and  blue, 

And  Thalictrum  like  a  feather  ; 
And  the  bright  Goat's-beard,  that  shuts  its  leave§ 

Before  a  change  of  weather. 


136  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

I  had  Marigolds,  and  Gilliflowers, 
And  Pinks  all  Pinks  exceeding  ; 

I'd  a  noble  root  of  Love-in-a-mist, 
And  plenty  of  Love-lies-bleeding. 

I'd  Jacob's  Ladder,  Aaron's  Rod, 
And  the  Peacock-Gentianella ; 

I  had  Asters  more  than  I  can  tell, 
And  Lupins  blue  and  yellow. 

I  set  a  grain  of  Indian  Corn, 

One  day  in  an  idle  humor, 
And  the  grain  sprung  up  six  feet  or  more ! 

My  glory  for  a  summer. 

I  found  far  off  in  the  pleasant  fields 
More  flowers  than  I  can  mention ; 

I  found  the  English  Asphodel, 

And  the  spring  and  autumn  Gentian. 

I  found  the  Orchis,  fly  and  bee, 
And  the  Cistus  of  the  mountain ; 

And  the  Money-wort  and  the  Adder's-tongue 
Beside  an  old  wood  fountain. 

I  found  within  another  wood, 

The  rare  Pyrola  blowing : 
For  wherever  there  was  a  curious  flower, 

I  was  sure  to  find  it  growing. 

I  set  them  in  my  garden  beds, 

Those  beds  I  loved  so  dearly, 
Where  I  labored  after  set  of  sun, 

And  in  summer  mornings  early 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  137 

0  my  pleasant  garden-plot !  — 
A  shrubbery  was  beside  it, 

And  an  old  and  mossy  Apple-tree, 
With  a  Woodbine  wreathed  to  hide  it 

There  was  a  bower  in  my  garden-plot, 

A  Spiraea  grew  before  it ; 
Behind  it  was  a  Laburnum-tree, 

And  a  wild  Hop  clambered  o'er  it 

Ofttimes  I  sat  within  my  bower, 

Like  a  king  in  all  his  glory ; 
Ofttimes  I  read,  and  read  for  hours 

Some  pleasant,  wondrous  story. 

1  read  of  gardens  in  old  times, 

Old,  stately  Gardens,  kingly, 
Where  people  walked  in  gorgeous  crowds, 
Or  for  silent  musing,  singly. 

I  raised  up  visions  in  my  brain, 

The  noblest  and  the  fairest ; 
But  still  I  loved  my  Garden  best, 

And  thought  it  far  the  rarest 

And  all  among  my  flowers  I  walked, 

Like  a  miser  'mid  his  treasure  ; 
For  that  pleasant  plot  of  Garden  ground 

Was  a  world  of  endless  pleasure. 

12* 


(138 


THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY. 

AN  APOLOGUE. 
A  NEW  VERSION  OF  AN  OLD  STORY. 

**  WILL  you  walk  into  my  parlor  ?  "  said  the  Spider  to 

the  Fly, 

"  'Tis  the  prettiest  little  parlor  that  ever  you  did  spy ; 
The  way  into  my  parlor  is  up  a  winding1  stair, 
And  I've  many  curious  things  to  show  when  you  are 

there." 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "  to  ask  me  is  in  vain, 
For  who  goes  up  your  winding  stair  can  ne'er  come 

down  again." 

"  Fm  sure  you  must  be  weary,  dear,  with  soaring  up  so 

high; 
Will  you  rest  upon  my  little  bed  ?  "  said  the  Spider  to 

the  Fly. 
"  There  are  pretty  curtains  drawn  around  ;  the  sheets 

are  fine  and  thin, 

And  if  you  like  to  rest  awhile,  I'll  snugly  tuck  you  in ! n 
"Oh  no,  no,"  said  the    little  Fly,    "for    I've    often 

heard  it  said, 
They  never,  never  wake  again,  who  sleep  upon  your 

bed ! " 

Said  the  cunning  Spider  to  the  Fly,    "Dear  friend, 

what  can  I  do, 
To  prove  the  warm  affection  I've  always  felt  for  you  ? 


if         -  -  =-5= 

HOWITT'S  POEMS.  139 

I  have  within  my  pantry  good  store  of  all  that's  nice  ; 

I'm  sure  you're  very  welcome  —  will  you  please  to  take 
a  slice  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  said  the  little  Fly,  "  kind  sir,  that  can 
not  be, 

I've  heard  what's  in  your  pantry,  and  I  do  not  wish  to 
see ! " 

"  Sweet  creature  ! "  said  the  Spider,  "  you're  witty  and 

you're  wise, 
How  handsome  are  your  gauzy  wings,  how  brilliant  are 

your  eyes ! 

I've  a  little  looking-glass  upon  my  parlor  shelf, 
If  you'll  step  in  one  moment,  dear,  you  shall  behold 

yourself. " 
"  I  thank  you,  gentle  sir,"  she  said,  "  for  what  you're 

pleased  to  say, 
And  bidding  you  good  morning  now,  I'll  call  another 

day." 

The  Spider  turned  him  round  about,  and  went  into  his 

den, 
For  well  he  knew  the  silly  Fly  would  soon  come  back 

again : 

So  he  wove  a  subtle  web,  in  a  little  corner  sly, 
And  set  his  table  ready,  to  dine  upon  the  Fly. 
Then  he  came  out  to  his  door  again,  and  merrily  did 

sing, 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  pretty  Fly,  with  the  pearl  and 

silver  wing ; 
Your  robes  are  green  and  purple — there's  a  crest  upon 

your  head  ; 
Your  eyes  are  like  the  diamond  bright,  but  mine  are 

dull  as  lead  '  " 
I 


140  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Alas,  alas !  how  very  soon  this  silly  little  Fly, 
Hearing  his  wily,  flattering  words,  came  slowly  flitting 

by; 
With  buzzing  wings  she  hung  aloft,  then  near  and 

nearer  drew, 
Thinking  only  of  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  green  and 

purple  hue — 
Thinking  only  of  her  crested  head — poor  foolish  thing ! 

At  last, 
Up  jumped  the  cunning  Spider,  and  fiercely  held  her 

fast 
He  dragged  her  up  his  winding  stair,  into  his  dismal 

den, 
Within  his  little  parlor — but  she  ne'er  came  out  again ! 

And  now,  dear  little  chilldren,  who  may  this  story  read, 
To  idle,  silly,  flattering  words,  I  pray  you  ne'er  give 

heed  ; 

Unto  an  evil  counsellor,  close  heart,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
And  take  a  lesson  from  this  talu,  of  the  Spider  and  the 

Fly. 


(141 


TALES    IN   VERSE. 

ANDREW  LEE. 

THE      FISHER     BOY. 

AH  !  Fisher  Boy,  I  well  know  thee, 
Brother  thou  art  to  Marion  Lee  ! 
What !  didst  thou  think  I  knew  thee  not, 
Couldst  thou  believe  I  had  forgot  ? 
For  shame,  for  shame  !  what  ?  I  forget 
The  treasures  of  thy  laden  net ! 
And  how  we  went  one  day  together, 
One  day  of  showery  summer  weather, 
Up  the  sea-shore,  and  for  an  hour 
Stood  sheltering  from  a  pelting  shower 
Within  an  upturned,  ancient  boat, 
That  had  not  been  for  years  afloat ! 
No,  no,  my  boy  !  I  liked  too  well 
The  old  sea-stories  thou  didst  tell ; 
I  liked  too  well  thy  roguish  eye— 
Thy  merry  speech — thy  laughter  sly ; 
Thy  old  sea-jacket,  to  forget, — 
And  then  the  treasures  of  thy  net ! 
Oh,  Andrew !  thou  hast  not  forgot, 
I'm  very  sure  that  thou  hast  not, 
All  that  we  talked  about  that  day, 
Of  famous  countries  far  away  ! 


142  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Of  Crusoes  in  their  islands  lone, 

That  never  were,  nor  will  be  known, 

And  yet  this  very  moment  stand 

Upon  some  point  of  mountain  land, 

Looking  out  o'er  the  desert  sea, 

If  chance  some  coming;  ship  there  he. 

Thou  know'st  we  talked  of  this  —  thou  know'at 

We  talked  about  a  ship-boy's  ghost  — 

A  wretched  little  orphan  lad 

Who  served  a  master  stern  and  bad, 

And  had  no  friend  to  take  his  part, 

And  perished  of  a  broken  heart ; 

Or  by  his  master's  blows,  some  said, 

For  in  the  boat  they  found  him  dead, 

And  the  boat's  side  was  stained  and  red  ! 

And  then  we  talked  of  many  a  heap 
Of  ancient  treasure  in  the  deep, 
And  the  great  serpent  that  some  men 
In  far-off  seas,  meet  now  and  then  ; 
Of  grand  sea-palaces  that  shine 
Through  forests  of  old  coralline  ; 
And  wondrous  creatures  that  may  dwell 
In  many  a  crimson  Indian  shell ; 
Till  I  shook  hands  with  thee,  to  see 
Thou  wast  a  poet  —  Andrew  Lee  ! 
Though  thou  wast  guiltless  all  the  time 
Of  putting  any  thoughts  in  rhyme  ; 
Ah,  little  fisher  boy  !  since  then, 
Ladies  I've  seen  and  learned  men, 
All  clever,  and  some  great  and  wise, 
Who  study  all  things,  earth  and  skies, 
Who  much  have  seen,  and  much  have  read, 
And  famous  things  have  writ  and  said  ; 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  143 

But  Andrew,  never  have  I  heard 

One  who  so  much  my  spirit  stirred, 

As  he  who  sate  with  me  an  hour, 

Screened  from  the  pelting  thunder-shower  - 

Now  laughing  in  his  merry  wit ; 

Now  talking  in  a  serious  fit, 

In  speech  that  poured  like  water  free ; 

And  that  was  thoti  —  Poor  Andrew  Lefl 

Then  shame  to  think  I  knew  thee  not  - 
Thou  hast  not,  nor  have  I  forgot ; 
And  long  'twill  be  ere  I  forget 
How  thou  took'st  up  thy  laden  net, 
And  gave  me  all  that  it  contained, 
Because  I  too  thy  heart  had  gained  1 


(144) 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

THERE  was  a  girl  of  fair  Provence, 

Fresh  as  a  flower  in  May, 
Who  'neath  a  spreading  plane-tree  sate, 

Upon  a  summer-day, 
And  thus  unto  a  mourner  young, 

In  a  low  voice  did  say. 

"  And  said  I,  I  shall  dance  no  more ; 

Fcr  though  but  young  in  years, 
I  knew  what  makes  men  wise  and  sad, — 

Affection's  ceaseless  fears, 
And  that  dull  aching  of  the  heart, 

Which  is  not  eased  by  tears. 

"  But  sorrow  will  not  always  last, 
Heaven  keeps  our  griefs  in  view; 

Mine  is  a  simple  tale,  dear  friend, 
Yet  I  will  tell  it  you ; 

A  simple  tale  of  household  g«ief 
And  household  gladness  too. 

"  My  father  in  the  battle  died, 
And  left  young  children  three  ; 

My  brother  Marc,  a  noble  lad, 
With  spirit  bold  and  free, 

More  kind  than  common  brothers  are ; 
And  Isabel  and  me. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  145 

"  When  Marc  was  sixteen  summers  old, 

A  tall  youth  and  a  strong, 
Said  he,  '  I  am  a  worthless  drone, 

I  do  my  mother  wrong  — 
I'll  hence  and  win  the  bread  I  eat, 

I've  burdened  you  too  long !  * 

"  Oh  !  many  tears  my  mother  shed ; 

And  earnestly  did  pray, 
That  he  would  still  abide  with  us, 

And  be  the  house's  stay ; 
And  be  like  morning  to  her  eyes, 

As  he  had  been  alway. 

"  But  Marc  he  had  a  steadfast  will, 

A  purpose  fixed  and  good, 
And  calmly  still  and  manfully 

Her  prayers  he  long  withstood ; 
Until  at  length  she  gave  consent, 

Less  willing  than  subdued. 

"  'Twas  on  a  shining  morn  in  June, 

He  rose  up  to  depart ; 
I  dared  not  to  my  mother  show 

The  sadness  of  my  heart ; 
We  said  farewell,  and  yet  farewell, 

As  if  we  could  not  part. 

"  There  seemed  a  gloom  within  the  house, 

Although  the  bright  sun  shone ; 
There  was  a  want  within  our  hearts  — 

For  he,  the  dearest  one, 
Had  said  farewell  that  morn  of  June, 

And  from  our  sight  was  gone. 

13 


146  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  At  length  most  doleful  tidings  came, 

Sad  tidings  of  dismay ; 
The  plague  was  in  the  distant  town, 

And  hundreds  died  each  day  : 
We  thought,  in  truth,  poor  Marc  would  die, 

'Mid  strangers  far  away. 

"  Weeks  passed,  and  months,  and  not  a  word 

Came  from  him  to  dispel 
The  almost  certainty  of  death 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  fell ; 
My  mother  drooped  from  fear,  which  grew 

Each  day  more  terrible. 

"  At  length  she  said,  *  I'll  see  my  son, 

In  life  if  yet  he  be, 
Or  else  the  turf  that  covers  him ! ' 

When  sank  she  on  her  knee, 
And  clasped  her  hands  in  silent  prayer, 

And  wept  most  piteously. 

"  She  went  into  the  distant  town, 

Still  asking  everywhere 
For  tidings  of  her  long-lost  son :  — 

In  vain  she  made  her  prayer ; 
All  were  so  full  of  wo  themselves, 

No  pity  had  they  to  spare. 

"  To  hear  her  tell  that  tale  would  move 

The  sternest  heart  to  bleed ; 
She  was  a  stranger  in  that  place, 

Yet  none  of  her  took  heed  ; 
And  broken-hearted  she  came  back, 

A  bowed  and  bruised  reed. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  147 

"  I  marked  her  cheek  yet  paler  grow, 

More  sunken  yet  her  eye ; 
And  to  my  soul  assurance  came 

That  she  was  near  to  die, 
And  hourly  was  my  earnest  prayer 

Put  up  for  her  on  high. 

"  Oh,  what  a  wo  seemed  then  to  us, 

The  friendless  orphan's  fate  ! 
I  dared  not  picture  to  my  mind, 

How  drear,  how  desolate  — 
But,  like  a  frightened  thing,  my  heart 

Shrunk  from  a  pang  so  great ! 

"  We  rarely  left  my  mother's  side, 

'Twas  joy  to  touch  her  hand, 
And  with  unwearying,  patient  love, 

Beside  her  couch  to  stand, 
To  wait  on  her,  and  every  wish 

Unspoke  to  understand. 

At  length,  oh  joy  beyond  all  joys ! 

When  we  believed  him  dead, 
One  calm  and  sunny  afternoon, 

As  she  lay  on  her  bed 
In  quiet  sleep,  methought  below 

I  heard  my  brother's  tread. 

"  I  rose,  and  on  the  chamber  stair, 

I  met  himself —  no  other  — 
More  beautiful  than  ere  before, 

My  tall  and  manly  brother ! 
I  should  have  swooned,  but  for  the  thought 

Of  my  poor  sleeping  mother. 


148  IIOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  we  met ;  — 
I  could  not  speak  for  weeping ; 

Nor  had  I  words  enough  for  joy,  — 
My  heart  within  seemed  leaping, 

I  should  have  screamed,  but  for  the  thought 
Of  her  who  there  lay  sleeping ! 

"  That  Marc  returned  in  joy  to  us, 
My  mother  dreamed  e'en  then, 

And  that  prepared  her  for  the  bliss 
Of  meeting  him  again ;  — 

To  tell  how  great  that  bliss,  would  need 
The  tongue  of  wisest  men  ! 

"  His  lightest  tone,  his  very  step, 

More  power  had  they  to  win 
My  drooping  mother  back  to  life, 

Than  every  medicine  ; 
She  rose  again,  like  one  revived 

From  death  where  he  had  been ! 

"  The  story  that  my  brother  told 

Was  long,  and  full  of  joy  ; 
Scarce  to  the  city  had  he  come, 

A  poor  arid  friendless  boy, 
Than  he  c'hanced  to  meet  a  merchant  good, 

From  whom  he  asked  employ. 

"  The  merchant  was  a  childless  man ; 

And  in  my  brother's  face 
Something  he  saw  that  moved  his  heart 

To  such  unusual  grace  ; 
'  My  son,'  said  he,  '  is  dead,  wilt  thou 

Supply  to  me  his  place  ? » 


HO  WITT'S   POEMS.  149 

"  Even  then,  bound  to  the  golden  East, 

His  ship  before  him  lay  ; 
And  this  new  bond  of  love  was  formed 

There,  standing  on  the  quay  ; 
My  brother  went  on  board  with  him, 

And  sailed  that  very  day ! 

"  The  letter  that  he  wrote  to  us, 

It  never  reached  our  hand ; 
And  while  we  drooped  with  anxious  love, 

He  gained  the  Indian  strand, 
And  saw  a  thousand  wondrous  things, 

In  that  old,  famous  land. 

And  many  rich  and  curious  things, 

Bright  bird  and  pearly  shell, 
He  brought,  as  if  to  realize 

The  tales  he  had  to  tell ; 
My  mother  smiled,  and  wept,  and  smiled, 

And  listened,  and  grew  well. 

"  The  merchant  loved  him  more  and  more, 

And  did  a  father's  part ; 
And  blessed  my  brother  for  the  love 

That  healed  his  wounded  heart ; 
He  was  a  friend  that  heaven  had  sent 

Kind  mercy  to  impart. 

"  So  do  not  droop,  my  gentle  friend, 

Though  grief  may  burden  sore  ; 
Look  up  to  God,  for  he  hath  love 

And  comfort  in  great  store, 
And  ofttimes  moveth  human  hearts 

To  bless  us  o'er  and  o'er  " 

13* 


(150 


ELLEN  MORE. 

• 

"  SWEET  Ellen  More,"  said  I,  "  come  forth 

Beneath  the  sunny  sky  ; 
.  Why  stand  you  musing  all  alone, 

With  such  an  anxious  eye  ? 
What  is  it,  child,  that  aileth  you  ?  " 
And  thus  she  made  reply : 


"  The  fields  are  green,  the  skies  are  bright, 

The  leaves  are  on  the  tree, 
And  'mong  the  sweet  flowers  of  the  thyme 

Far  flies  the  honey-bee  ; 
And  the  lark  hath  sung  since  morning  prime, 

And  merrily  singeth  he. 

"  Yet  not  for  this  shall  I  go  forth 

On  the  open  hills  to  play, 
There's  not  a  bird  that  singeth  now, 

Would  tempt  me  hence  to  stray ;  — 
I  would  not  leave  our  cottage  door 

For  a  thousand  flowers  to-day  ! 

"  And  why  ?  "  said  I,  "  what  is  there  here 

Beside  your  cottage  door, 
To  make  a  merry  girl  like  you 

Thus  idly  stand  to  pore  ? 
There  is  a  mystery  in  this  thing,  — 

Now  tell  me,  Ellen  More  !" 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  151 

The  fair  girl  looked  into  my  face, 

With  her  dark  and  serious  eye  ; 
Silently  awhile  she  looked, 

Then  heaved  a  quiet  sigh ; 
And,  with  a  half-reluctant  will, 

Again  she  made  reply. 

"  Three  years  ago,  unknown  to  us, 

When  nuts  were  on  the  tree, 
Even  in  the  pleasant  harvest-time, 

My  brother  went  to  sea  — 
Unknown  to  us,  to  sea  he  went, 

And  a  woful  house  were  we. 

"  That  winter  was  a  weary  time, 

A  long,  dark  time  of  wo, 
For  we  knew  not  in  what  ship  he  sailed, 

And  vainly  sought  to  know  ; 
And  day  and  night  the  loud,  wild  winds 

Seemed  evermore  to  blow. 

"  My  mother  lay  upon  her  bed, 

Her  spirit  solely  tossed 
With  dismal  thoughts  of  storm  and  wreck 

Upon  some  savage  coast ; 
But  morn  and  eve  we  prayed  to  Heaven 

That  he  might  not  be  lost. 

"  And  when  the  pleasant  spring  came  on, 

And  fields  again  were  green, 
He  sent  a  letter  full  of  news, 

Of  the  wonders  he  had  seen ; 
Praying  us  to  think  him  dutiful 

As  he  afore  had  been 


132  HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

"  The  tidings  that  came  next  were  from 

A  sailor  old  and  gray, 
Who  saw  his  ship  at  anchor  lie 

In  the  harbor  at  Bombay ; 
But  he  said  my  brother  pined  for  home, 

And  wished  he  were  away. 

"  Again  he  wrote  a  letter  long, 

Without  a  word  of  gloom  ; 
And  soon,  and  very  soon  he  said, 

He  should  again  come  home  ; 
I  watched,  as  now,  beside  the  door, 

And  yet  he  did  not  come. 

"  I  watched  and  watched,  but  I  knew  not  then 

It  would  be  all  in  vain  ; 
For  very  sick  he  lay  the  while, 

In  a  hospital  in  Spain.  — 
Ah,  me !  I  fear  my  brother  dear 

Will  ne'er  come  home  again ! 

"  And  now  I  watch  —  for  we  have  heard 

That  he  is  on  his  way, 
And  the  letter  said,  in  very  truth, 

He  would  be  here  to-day. 
Oh !  there's  no  bird  that  singeth  now 

Could  tempt  me  hence  away  ! " 

—  That  self-same  eve  I  wandered  down 

Unto  the  busy  strand, 
Just  as  a  little  boat  came  in 

With  people  to  the  land ; 
And  'mongst  them  was  a  sailor-boy 

Who  leaped  upon  the  sand. 


j 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS.  153 

I  knew  him  by  his  dark  blue  eyes, 

And  by  his  features  fair ; 
And  as  he  leaped  ashore  he  sang 

A  simple  Scottish  air,  — 
"  There's  nae  place  like  our  ain  dear  hame 

To  be  met  wi'  onywhere  ! " 


A  SWINGING  SONG. 

MERRY  it  is  on  a  summer's  day, 
All  through  the  meadows  to  wend  away ; 
To  watch  the  brooks  glide  fast  or  slow, 
And  the  little  fish  twinkle  down  below ; 
To  hear  the  lark  in  the  blue  sky  sing, 
Oh,  sure  enough,  'tis  a  merry  thing  — 
But  'tis  merrier  far  to  swing  —  to  swing ! 

Merry  it  is  on  a  winter's  night, 
To  listen  to  tales  of  elf  and  sprite, 
Of  caves  and  castles  so  dim  and  old,  — 
The  dismallest  tales  that  ever  were  told ;  • 
And  then  to  laugh,  and  then  to  sing, 
You  may  take  my  word  is  a  merry  thing,  • 
But  'tis  merrier  far  to  swing  —  to  swing ! 

Down  with  the  hoop  upon  the  green , 
Down  with  the  ringing  tamborine  ;  — 
Little  heed  we  for  this  or  for  that ; 
Off  with  the  bonnet,  off  with  the  hat ! 


154  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

Away  we  go  like  birds  on  the  wing ! 

Higher  yet!  higher  yet !  "  Now  for  the  King !  * 

This  is  the  way  we  swing  —  we  swing ! 

Scarcely  the  bough  bends,  Claude  is  so  light, 

Mount  up  behind  him  —  there,  that  is  right ! 

Down  bends  the  branch  now  ;  —  swing  him  away 

Higher  yet  —  higher  yet  —  higher  I  say ! 

Oh,  what  a  joy  it  is  !     Now  let  us  sing 

"  A  pear  for  the  Queen — an  apple  for  the  King ! " 

And  shake  the  old  tree  as  we  swing  —  we  swing 


THE  YOUNG  MOURNER. 

LEAVING  her  sports,  in  pensive  tone, 

'Twas  thus  a  fair  young  mourner  said, 
*  How  sad  we  are  now  we're  alone,  — 

I  wish  my  mother  were  not  dead ! 

1 1  can  remember  she  was  fair  ; 

And  how  she  kindly  looked  and  smiled, 
When  she  would  fondly  stroke  my  hair, 

And  call  me  her  beloved  child. 

"  Before  my  mother  went  away, 

You  never  sighed  as  now  you  do ; 
You  used  to  join  us  at  our  play, 

And  be  our  merriest  playmate  too 

i 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  155 

"  Father,  I  can  remember  when 

I  first  observed  her  sunken  eye, 
And  her  pale,  hollow  cheek ;  and  then 

I  told  my  brother  she  would  die  ! 

"  And  the  next  morn  they  did  not  speak, 

But  led  us  to  her  silent  bed ; 
They  bade  us  kiss  her  icy  cheek, 

And  told  us  she  indeed  was  dead ! 

"  Oh,  then  I  thought  how  she  was  kind, 
My  own  beloved  and  gentle  mother ! 

And  calling  all  I  knew  to  mind, 
I  thought  there  ne'er  was  such  another ! 

"  Poor  little  Charles,  and  I !  that  day 

We  sate  within  our  silent  room ; 
But  we  could  neither  read  nor  play,  — 

The  very  walls  seemed  full  of  gloom. 

"  I  wish  my  mother  had  not  died, 

We  never  have  been  glad  since  then ! 

They  say,  and  is  it  true,"  she  cried, 
"  That  she  can  never  come  again  ?  " 

The  father  checked  his  tears,  and  thus 
He  spake,  "  My  child,  they  do  not  err, 

Who  say  she  cannot  come  to  us  ; 
But  you  and  I  may  go  to  her. 

"  Remember  your  dear  mother  still, 
And  the  pure  precepts  she  has  given ; 

Like  her,  be  humble,  free  from  ill, 

And  you  shall  see  her  face  in  heaven!" 


THE  SOLDIER'S  STORY. 

HEAVEN  bless  the  boys  !  "  the  old  man  said, 
"  I  hear  their  distant  drumming,  — 

Young  Arthur  Bruce  is  at  their  head, 
And  down  the  street  they're  coming. 

"  And  a  very  noble  standard  too 

He  carries  in  the  van ; 
By  the  faith  of  an  old  soldier,  he 

Is  born  to  make  a  man  !  " 

A  glow  of  pride  passed  o'er  his  cheek, 

A  tear  came  to  his  eye ; 
"  Hurra,  hurra !  my  gallant  men  ! " 

Cried  he,  as  they  came  nigh. 

"  It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday 

Since  I  was  one  like  ye, 
And  now  my  years  are  seventy-two,  • 

Come  here,  and  talk  with  me  ! " 

They  made  a  halt,  those  merry  boys, 

Befpfe  the  aged  man  ; 
And  "  Tell  us  now  some  story  wild 

Young  Arthur  Bruce  began  ; 

"  Of  battle  and  of  victory 

Tell  us  some  stirring  thing ! " 
The  old  man  raised  his  arm  aloft, 

And  cried,  "  God  save  the  King 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  157 

"  A  soldier's  is  a  life  of  fame, 

A  life  that  hath  its  meed  — 
They  write  his  wars  in  printed  books, 

That  every  man  may  read. 

"  And  if  you'd  hear  a  story  wild. 

Of  war  and  battle  done, 
I  am  the  man  to  tell  such  tales, 

And  you  shall  now  have  one. 

"  In  every  quarter  of  the  globe 

I've  fought  —  by  sea,  by  land ; 
And  scarce  for  five  and  fifty  years 

Was  the  musket  from  my  hand. 

"  But  the  bloodiest  wars,  and  fiercest  too, 

That  were  waged  on  any  shore, 
Were  those  in  which  my  strength  was  spent, 

In  the  country  of  Mysore. 

"  And  oh  !  what  a  fearful,  deadly  clime 

Is  that  of  the  Indian  land, 
Where  the  burning  sun  shines  fiercely  down 

On  the  hot  and  fiery  sand ! 

"  The  life  of  man  seems  little  worth, 

And  his  arm  hath  little  power ; 
His  very  soul  within  him  dies, 

As  dies  a  broken  flower. 

"  Yet  spite  of  this,  was  India  made 

As  for  a  kingly  throne  ; 
There  gold  is  plentiful  as  dust, 

As  sand  the  diamond  stone  : 

14 


158  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  And  like  a  temple  is  each  house, 
Silk-curtained  from  the  sun ; 

And  every  man  has  twenty  slaves, 
Who  at  his  bidding  run. 

"  He  rides  on  the  lordly  elephant, 
In  solemn  pomp ;  —  and  there 

They  hunt  the  gold -striped  tiger, 
As  here  they  hunt  the  hare. 

"  Yet  it  is  a  dreadful  clime  !  and  we 

Up  in  the  country  far 
Were  sent, — we  were  two  thousand  men, 

In  a  disastrous  war. 

"  The  soldiers  died  in  the  companies 
As  if  the  plague  had  been  ; 

And  soon  in  every  twenty  men, 
The  dead  were  seventeen. 

«  We  went  to  storm  a  fort  of  mud — 
And  yet  the  place  was  strong — 

Three  thousand  men  were  guarding  it, 
And  they  had  kept  it  long. 

"  We  were  in  all  three  hundred  souls, 
Feeble  and  worn  and  wan ; 

Like  walking  spectres  of  the  tomb. 
Was  every  living  man. 

"  Yet  Arthur  Bruce,  now  standing  there, 
With  the  ensign  of  his  band, 

Reminds  me  of  a  gallant  youth, 
Who  fought  at  my  right  hand 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  159 

"  Scarce  five  and  twenty  years  of  age, 

And  feeble  as  the  rest, 
Yet  with  the  bearing  of  a  king, 

That  noble  soul  expressed. 

"  But  a  silent  grief  was  in  his  eye, 

And  oft  his  noble  frame 
Shook  like  a  quivering  aspen  leaf, 

And  his  color  went  and  came. 

"  He  marched  by  my  side  for  seven  days, 

Most  patient  of  our  band  ; 
And  night  and  day  he  ever  kept 

Our  standard  in  his  hand. 

"  They  fought  with  us  like  tigers, 

Before  that  fort  of  mud  ; 
And  all  around  the  burning  sands 

Were  as  a  marsh  with  blood. 

"  We  watched  that  young  man, — he  to  us 

Was  as  a  kindling  hope  ; 
We  saw  him  pressing  on  and  on, 

Bearing  the  standard  up. 

"  At  length  it  for  a  moment  veered- 

A  ball  had  struck  his  hand, 
But  he  seized  the  banner  with  his  left, 

Without  a  moment's  stand. 

"  He  mounted  upward  to  the  wall ; 

He  waved  the  standard  high, — 
But  then  another  smote  him !  — 

And  the  captain  standing  by 


HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Said,  *  Of  this  gallant  youth  take  care, 
He  hath  won  for  us  the  day !  * 

I  and  my  comrades  took  him  up, 
And  bore  him  thence  away. 

"  There  was  no  tree  about  the  place, 

So  'neath  the  fortress  shade 
We  carried  him,  and  carefully 

Upon  the  red  sand  laid. 

"  I  took  the  feather  from  my  cap, 

To  fan  his  burning  cheek  ; 
I  gave  him  water,  drop  by  drop, 

And  prayed  that  he  would  speak. 

"  At  length  he  said,  '  Mine  hour  is  come ! 

My  soldier-name  is  bright ; 
But  a  pang  there  is  within  my  soul, 

That  hath  wrung  me  day  and  night ; 

"  *  I  left  my  mother's  home  without 
Her  blessing ;  —  she  doth  mourn, 

Doth  weep  for  me  with  bitter  tears,  — 
I  never  can  return ! 

"  '  This  bowed  my  eagle-spirit  down, 
This  robbed  mine  eye  of  rest ; 

I  left  her  widowed  and  alone :  — 
Oh  that  I  had  been  blessed ! ' 

"  No  more  he  said,  —  he  closed  his  eyes, 

And  yet  he  died  not  then ; 
He  lived  till  the  morrow  morning  came, 

But  he  never  spoke  again." 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  161 

This  tale  the  veteran  soldier  told, 

Upon  a  summer's  day  ;  — 
The  boys  came  merrily  down  the  street, 

But  they  all  went  sad  away. 


THE  CHILD'S  LAMENT. 

I  LIKE  it  not  —  this  noisy  street 

I  never  liked,  nor  can  I  now  — 
I  love  to  feel  the  pleasant  breeze 
On  the  free  hills,  and  see  the  trees, 

With  birds  upon  the  bough  ! 

Oh,  I  remember  long  ago,  — 

So  long  ago,  'tis  like  a  dream  — 
My  home  was  on  a  green  hill-side, 
By  flowery  meadows,  still  and  wide, 

'Mong  trees,  and  by  a  stream. 

Three  happy  brothers  I  had  then, 
My  merry  playmates  every  day  — 

I've  looked  and  looked  through  street  and  square, 

But  never  chanced  I,  anywhere, 
To  see  such  boys  as  they. 

We  all  had  gardens  of  our  own  — 

Four  little  gardens  in  a  row,  — 
And  there  we  set  our  twining  peas ; 
And  rows  of  cress  ;  and  real  trees 

And  real  flowers  to  grow. 

14* 


Il82  HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

My  father  I  remember  too, 

And  even  now  his  face  can  see ; 
And  the  gray  horse  he  used  to  ride, 
And  the  old  dog  that  at  his  side 
Went  barking  joyfully ! 

He  used  to  fly  my  brother's  kites, 

And  build  them  up  a  man  of  snow, 
And  sail  their  boats,  and  with  them  race, 
And  carry  me  from  place  to  place, 
Just  as  I  liked  to  go. 

Fm  sure  he  was  a  pleasant  man, 

And  people  must  have  loved  him  well ! 
Oh,  I  remember  that  sad  day 
When  they  bore  him  in  a  hearse  away, 
And  tolled  his  funeral  bell ! 

Thy  mother  comes  each  night  to  kiss 
Thee,  in  thy  little  quiet  bed  — 

So  came  my  mother  years  ago ; 

And  I  loved  her  —  oh !  I  loved  her  so, 
'Twas  joy  to  hear  her  tread ! 

It  must  be  many,  many  years 

Since  then,  and  yet  I  can  recall 
Her  very  tone  —  her  look —  her  dress, 
Her  pleasant  smile  and  gentleness, 
That  had  kind  words  for  all. 

She  told  us  tales,  she  sang  us  songs, 
And  in  our  pastimes  took  delight, 
And  joined  us  in  our  summer  glee, 
And  sat  with  us  beneath  the  tree  ' 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  103 

Nor  wearied  of  our  company, 
Whole  days,  from  morn  till  night. 

Alas !  I  know  that  she  is  dead, 

And  in  the  cold,  cold  grave  is  hid ; 
.1  saw  her  in  her  coffin  lie, 

With  the  grim  mourners  standing  by ; 

And  silent  people  solemnly 
Closed  down  the  coffin  lid. 

My  brothers  were  not  there  —  ah  me ! 

I  know  not  where  they  went ;  some  said 
With  a  rich  man  beyond  the  sea 
That  they  were  dwelling  pleasantly  — 

And  some  that  they  were  dead. 

I  cannot  think  that  it  is  so, 

I  never  saw  them  pale  and  thin, 
And  the  last  time  their  voice  I  heard, 
Merry  were  they  as  a  summer-bird, 

Singing  its  bowers  within. 

I  wish  that  I  could  see  their  faces, 
Or  know  at  least  that  they  were  near ; 

Ah  !  gladly  would  I  cross  the  sea, 

So  that  with  them  I  might  but  be, 

For  now  my  days  pass  wearily, 
And  all  are  strangers  here. 


(164) 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  CARRION  CROW. 

THERE  was  a  man  and  his  name  was  Jack, 

Crabbed  and  lean,  and  his  looks  were  black  — 

His  temper  was  sour,  his  thoughts  were  bad  ; 

His  heart  was  hard  when  he  was  a  lad. 

And  now  he  followed  a  dismal  trade, 

Old  horses  he  bought,  and  killed,  and  flayed ; 

Their  flesh  he  sold  for  the  dogs  to  eat : 

You  would  not  have  liked  this  man  to  meet 

He  lived  in  a  low  mud-house  on  a  moor, 

Without  any  garden  before  the  door. 

There  was  one  little  hovel  behind,  that  stood, 

Where  he  used  to  do  his  work  of  blood ; 

I  never  could  bear  to  see  the  place, 

It  was  stained  and  darkened  with  many  a  trace, 

A  trace  of  what  I  will  not  tell  — 

And  then  there  was  such  an  unchristian  smell ! 

Now  this  old  man  did  come  and  go, 

Through  the  wood  that  grew  in  the  dell  below  ; 

It  was  scant  a  mile  from  his  own  door-stone, 

Darksome  and  dense,  and  overgrown ; 

And  down  in  the  drearest  nook  of  the  wood, 

A  tall  and  splintered  fir-tree  stood  ; 

Half-way  up,  where  the  boughs  outspread, 

A  carrion  crow  his  nest  had  made, 

Of  sticks  and  reeds  in  the  dark  fir-tree, 

Where  lay  his  mate  and  his  nestlings  three ; 

And  whenever  he  saw  the  man  come  by, 

**  Dead  horse  !  dead  horse  ! "  he  was  sure  to  cry, 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  165 

"  Croak,  croak  ! "  if  he  went  or  came, 

The  cry  of  the  crow  was  just  the  same  ; 

Jack  looked  up  as  grim  as  could  be, 

And  says,  "  What's  my  trade  to  the  like  of  thee ! n 

"  Dead  horse !  dead  horse  !  croak,  croak !  croak,  croak ! " 

As  plain  as  words  to  his  ear  it  spoke. 

Old  Jack  stooped  down  and  picked  up  a  stone, 

A  stout,  thick  stick,  and  dry  cow's  bone, 

And  one  and  the  other  all  three  did  throw, 

So  angry  was  he,  at  the  carrion  crow ; 

But  none  of  the  three  reached  him  or  his  nest, 

Where  his  three  young  ones  lay  warm  at  rest ; 

And  "  Croak,  croak  !  dead  horse !  croak,  croak ! " 

In  his  solemn  way  again  he  spoke  ; 

Old  Jack  was  angry  as  he  could  be, 

And  says  he,  "On  the  morrow,  I'll  fell  thy  tree,— 

I'll  teach  thee,  old  fellow,  to  rail  at  me ! " 

As  soon  as  'twas  light,  if  there  you  had  been, 

Old  Jack  at  his  work  you  might  have  seen ; 

I  would  you'd  been  there  to  see  old  Jack, 

And  to  heat  the   strokes   as   they  came  "Thwack! 

thwack!" 

And  then  you'd  have  seen  how  the  croaking  bird 
Flew  round  as  the  axe's  stroke  he  heard, 
Flew  round  as  he  saw  the  shaking  blow, 
That  came  to  his  nest  from  the  root  below, 
One  after  the  other,  stroke  upon  stroke  ; 
"Thwack!   thwack!"   said   the  axe,  said  the  crow 

"Croak!  croak!" 

Old  Jack  looked  up  with  a  leer  in  his  eye, 
And,  "I'll  hew  it  down!  "  says  he,  "by  and  by  ._ 
I'll  teach  thee  to  rail,  my  old  fellow,  at  me  ! " 
So  he  spit  on  his  hands,  and  says,  "  Have  at  the  tree ! " 


166  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  Thwack ! "  says  the  axe,  as  the  bark  it  clove ; 

"  Thwack  ! "  as  into  the  wood  it  drove  ; 

"  Croak ! "  says  the  crow  in  a  great  dismay, 

"  Croak !  "  as  he  slowly  flew  away. 

Flap,  flap  went  his  wings  over  hedge  and  ditch, 

Till  ho  came  to  a  field  of  burning  twitch ; 

The  boy  with  a  lighted  lantern  there, 

As  he  stood  on  the  furrow  brown  and  bare, 

He  saw  the  old  crow  hop  hither  and  thither, 

Then  fly  with  a  burning  sod  somewhither. 

Away  flew  the  crow  to  the  house  on  the  moor, 

A  poor,  old  horse  was  tied  to  the  door ; 

The  burning  sod  on  the  roof  he  dropped, 

Then  upon  the  chimney-stone  he  hopped, 

And  down  he  peeped  that  he  might  see 

How  many  there  were  in  family  — 

There  was  a  mother  and  children  three. 

"  Croak !  croak ! "  the  old  crow  did  say, 

As  from  the  roof  he  flew  away, 

As  he  flew  away  to  the  tree,  to  watch 

The  burning  sod  and  the  dry  gray  thatch ; 

He  stayed  not  long  till  he  saw  it  smoke, 

Then  he  flapped  his  wings,  and  cried, "  Croak,  croak  I 

Away  to  the  wood  again  flew  he, 

And  soon  he  espied  the  slanting  tree, 

And  Jack,  who  stood  laughing  with  all  his  might, 

His  axe  in  his  hand  —  he  laughed  for  spite ; 

In  triumph  he  laughed,  and  took  up  a  stone, 

And  hammered  his  axe-head  faster  on ; 

"  Croak,  croak ! "  came  the  carrion  crow, 

Flapping  his  wings  with  a  motion  slow ; 

**  Thwack !  thwack !  "  the  spiteful  man, 

When  he  heard  his  cry,  with  his  axe  began  • 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS.  167 

"  Thwack !  thwack ! "  stroke  upon  stroke  ; 

The  crow  flew  by  with  a  "  Croak,  croak ! " 

With  a  "  Croak,  croak !  "  again  he  came, 

Just  as  the  house  burst  into  flame. 

With  a  splitting  crash,  and  a  crackling  sound, 

Down  came  the  tree  unto  the  ground  ; 

The  old  crow's  nest  afar  was  swung, 

And  the  young  ones  here  and  there  were  flung ; 

And  just  at  that  moment  came  up  a  cry, 

"  Oh  Jack,  make  haste,  or  else  we  die ; 

The  house  is  on  fire,  consuming  all, 

Make  haste,  make  haste,  ere  the  roof-tree  fall ! " 

The  young  crows  every  one  were  dead, 

But  the  old  crow  croaked  above  his  head  ; 

And  the  mother-crow  on  Jack  she  springs, 

And  flaps  in  his  face  her  great  black  wings ; 

And  all  the  while  he  hears  a  wail, 

That  turns  his  cheek  from  red  to  pale  — 

'Twas  wife  and  children  standing  there 

Wringing  their  hands  and  tearing  their  hair ! 

"Oh  wo,  our  house  is  burnt  to  cinder, 

Bedding  and  clothes  all  turned  to  tinder ; 

Down  to  the  very  hearth-stone  clean, 

Such  a  dismal  ruin  ne'er  was  seen : 

"  What  shall  we  do  —  where  must  we  go  ?  " 

"  Croak,  croak  !  "  says  the  carrion  crow. 


Now  ye  who  read  this  story  through, 
Heed  well  the  moral  —  'tis  for  you  ;  — 
Strife  brings  forth  strife  ;  be  meek  and  kind ; 
See  all  things  with  a  loving  mind ; 
Nor  e'er  by  passion  be  misled,  — 
Jack  by  himself  was  punished. 


168) 


MISCELLANEOUS   PIECES. 


THE   SALE  OF  THE  PET  LAMB  OF  THE 
COTTAGE. 

OH  !  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  'tis  full  of  grief  and 
pain, 

It  boweth  down  the  heart  of  man,  and  dulls  his  cun 
ning  brain, 

It  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  com 
plain  ! 


The  children  of  the  rich  man  have  not  their  bread  to 

win; 
They  hardly  know  how  labor  is  the  penalty  of 

sin ; 
Even  as  the  lilies  of  the  field,  they  neither  toil  nor 

spin. 


And  year  by  year,  as  life  wears  on,  no  wants  have  they 

to  bear ; 
In  all  the  luxury  of  the  earth  they  have  abundant 

share ; 
They  walk  among  life's  pleasant  ways,  and  never 

know  a  care 


HOWITT'S    POEMS.  169 

The  children  of  the    poor    man  —  though  they  be 

young,  each  one, 
Early  in  the  morning  they  rise  up  before  the  rising 

sun, 
And  scarcely  when  the  sun  is  set,  their  daily  task  is 

done. 

Few  things  have  they  to  call  their  own,  to  fill  their 
hearts  with  pride,  — 

The  sunshine  of  the  summer's  day,  the  flowers  on  the 
highway  side, 

Or  their  own  free  companionship,  on  the  heathy  com 
mon  wide. 

Hunger,  and  cold,  and  weariness,  these  are  a  frightful 

three ; 
But  another  curse  there  is  beside,  that  darkens  pov 

erty :  — 
It  may  not  have  one  thing  to  love,  how  small  soe'er 

it  be. 

A  thousand  flocks   were  on  the  hills  —  a  thousand 

flocks,  and  more,  — 
Feeding  in  sunshine  pleasantly,  —  they  were  the  rich 

man's  store ; 
There  was  the  while,  one  little  lamt>,  oeside  a  cottage 

door: 

A  little  lamb  that  did  lie  down  with  the  children  'neath 

the  tree  ; 
That  ate,  meek  creature,  from  their  hands,  and  nestled 

on  their  knee ; 
That  had  a  plac«  within  their  hearts,  as  one  of  the 

family. 


170  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

But  want,  even  as  an  armed  man,  came  down  upon 

their  shed, 
The  father  labored  all  day  long,  that  his  children  might 

be  fed; 
And,  one  by  one,  their  household  things  were  sold  to 

buy  them  bread. 

That  father,  with  a  downcast  eye,  upon  his  threshold 

stood, 
Gaunt  poverty  each  pleasant  thought  had  in  his  heart 

subdued ; 
"What  is  the  creature's  life  to  us?"  said  he,  "'twill 

buy  us  food ! 

"Ay,  though  the  children  weep  all   day,  and  with 

down-drooping  head 
Each  does  his  small  craft  mournfully !  —  the  hungry 

must  be  fed ; 
And  that  which  has  a  price  to  bring,  must  go,  to  buy 

us  bread ! " 

It  went  —  oh !  parting  has  a  pang  the  hardest  heart  to 
wring, 

But  the  tender  soul  of  a  little  child  with  fervent  love 
doth  cling, 

With  love  that  hath  no  feignings  false,  unto  each  gen 
tle  thing ! 

Therefore  most  sorrowful  it  was  those  children  small 

to  see, 
Most  sorrowful  to  hear  them  plead  for  their  pet  so  pit- 

eously ;  — 
««Oh!   mother  dear,  it  loveth  us;  and  what  beside 

have  we  ? 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS.  171 

"  Let's  take  him  to  the  broad,  green  hills,"  in  his  im 
potent  despair, 

Said  one  strong  boy,  "  let's  take  him  off,  the  hills  are 
wide  and  fair ; 

I  know  a  little  hiding-place,  and  we  will  keep  him 
there ! " 

'Twas  vain !  —  they  took  the  little  lamb,  and  straight 
way  tied  him  down, 

With  a  strong  cord  they  tied  him  fast ;  —  and  o'er  the 
common  brown, 

And  o'er  the  hot  and  flinty  roads,  they  took  him  to  the 
town. 

The  little  children  through  that  day,  and  throughout 

all  the  morrow 
From  everything  about  the  house  a  mournful  thought 

did  borrow ; 
The  very  bread  they  had  to  eat  was  food  unto  their 

sorrow !  — 

Oh !  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  'tis  full  of  grief  and 
pain —  ' 

It  keepeth  down  the  soul  of  man  as  with  an  iron 
chain ; 

tt  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  com 
plain  ! 


AMERICA. 

A    STORY    OF    THE    INDIAN    WAR. 

THEY  read  of  rapine,  war,  and  wo, 
A  party  by  an  English  fire,  — 

Of  Indian  warfare  in  the  wood, 
Of  stern  and  ruthless  ire. 

They  read  of  torture  worse  than  death  — 
Of  treachery  dark  —  of  natures  base  — 

Of  women  savage  as  the  beast  — 
Of  the  red  Indian  race. 

"  Hold  !  "  said  the  matron  of  the  hearth, 
A  woman  beautiful  in  age ; 

"  And  let  me  of  the  Indian  speak ; 
Close,  close  that  faithless  page  ! 

"  My  father  was  the  youngest  bom 
In  an  old  rural  English  hall ; 

The  youngest  out  of  five  stout  sons, 
With  patrimony  small. 

"  His  boyhood  was  in  greenwood  spent ; 

His  youth  was  all  a  sylvan  dream ; 
He  tracked  the  game  upon  the  hills ; 

He  angled  in  the  stream. 

"  Quiet  was  he,  and  well  content, 

With  naught  to  fret,  and  none  to  chide ; 

I 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  173 

For  all  that  his  young  heart  desired 
The  woods  and  streams  supplied. 

"  Small  knowledge  had  a  youth  so  trained, 
College  or  school  ne'er  knew  his  face; 

And  yet  as  he  grew  up,  he  grew 
Superior  to  his  race. 

"  His  brethren  were  of  sordid  sort, 
Men  with  coarse  minds,  and  without  range 

He  grew  adventurous  and  bold, 
Inquisitive  of  change. 

"  And,  as  he  grew,  he  took  to  books, 
And  read  whate'er  the  hall  supplied  ; 

Histories  of  admirals,  voyages  old, 
And  travels  far  and  wide. 

"  He  read  of  settlers,  who  went  forth 
To  the  far  west,  and  pitched  their  tent 

Within  the  woods,  and  grew,  ere  long, 
To  a  great  prosperous  settlement 

"  He  read  of  the  bold  lives  they  led, 

Full  of  adventure,  hardy,  free  ; 
Of  the  wild  creatures  they  pursued, 

Of  game  in  every  tree. 

"  And  how  the  Indians,  quaintly  gay, 
Came  down  in  wampum-belt  and  feather 

To  welcome  them  with  courteous  grace  • 

How  they  and  the  free  forest  race 
Hunted  and  dwelt  together. 


J71  HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

"  And  how  they  and  their  chosen  mates 
Led  lives  so  sweet  and  primitive : 

Oh  !  in  such  land,  with  one  dear  heart, 
What  joy  it  were  to  live  ! 

"  So  thought  he,  and  such  life  it  were 
As  suited  well  his  turn  of  mind ; 

For  what  within  his  father's  house 
Was  there  to  lure  or  bind  ? 

"  Four  needy  brothers,  coarse  and  dull ; 

A  patrimony,  quite  outspent ; 
A  mother,  long  since  in  her  grave ; 

A  father,  weak  and  indolent ! 

"  At  twenty  he  had  ta'en  a  mate, 
A  creature  gentle,  kind  and  fair  ; 

Poor,  like  himself,  but  well  content 
The  forest-life  to  share. 

"  She  left  an  old  white-headed  sire ; 

A  mother  loving,  thoughtful,  good ; 
She  left  a  home  of  love,  to  live 

For  him,  within  the  wood. 

"  And  that  old  couple  did  provide, 
Out  of  their  need,  for  many  a  want 

Else  unforseen  ;  their  daughter's  dower 
In  gifts  of  love,  not  scant 

"  His  father  with  cold  scorn  received 
So  dowered  a  daughter,  without  name  ; 

Nor  could  his  purposed  exile  win 
Either  assent  or  blame. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  175 

All  was  a  chill  of  indifference ; 
And  from  his  father's  gate  he  went, 
As  from  a  place  where  none  for  him 
Had  kindred  sentiment 

"  And  in  the  western  world  they  dwelt ; 

Life,  like  a  joyous  summer  morn, 
Each  hope  fulfilled  ;  and  in  the  wild 

To  them  were  children  born. 

"  All  that  his  youth  had  dreamed  he  found 
In  that  life's  freshness  ;  peril  strange ; 

Adventure ;  freedom  ;  sylvan  wealth  ; 
And  ceaseless,  blameless  change. 

"  And  there  he,  and  his  heart's  true  mate, 
Essayed  and  found  how  sweet  to  live, 

'Mid  nature's  store,  with  health  and  love, 
That  life  so  primitive  ! 

"  But  that  sweet  life  came  to  an  end.  — 

As  falls  the  golden-eared  corn 
Before  the  sickle,  earthly  bliss 

In  human  hearts  is  shorn. 

"  Sickness  —  bereavement  —  widowhood  — 
Oh,  these  three  awful  words  embrace 

A  weight  of  mortal  wo  that  fell 
Upon  our  sylvan  dwelling-place  ' 

"  It  matters  not  to  tell  of  pangs, 

Of  the  heart  broken,  the  bereft ; 
I  will  pass  over  death  and  tears, 
I  will  pass  on  to  other  years, 

When  only  two  were  left ' 


176  HOWITT'S  POEMS. 

"  I  and  a  sister ;  long  had  passed 
The  anguish  of  that  time,  and  we 

Were  living  in  a  home  of  love, 
Though  in  a  stranger's  family. 

Still  in  the  wilderness  we  dwelt, 

And  were  grown  up  towards  womanhood ; 

When  our  sweet  life  of  peace  was  stirred 
By  tales  of  civil  feud. 

"  By  rumors  of  approaching  war, 
Of  battle  done,  of  armed  bands ; 

Of  horrid  deeds  of  blood  and  fire, 
Achieved  by  Indian  hands. 

"  We  heard  it  first  with  disbelief: 
And  long  time  after,  when  had  spread 

Wild  war  throughout  the  land,  we  dwelt 
All  unassailed  by  dread. 

"  For  they  with  whom  our  lot  was  cast, 
Were  people  of  that  Christian  creed 

Who  will  not  fight,  but  trust  in  God 
For  help  in  time  of  need. 

"  The  forest  round  was  like  a  camp, 
And  men  were  armed  day  and  night ; 

And  every  morning  brought  fresh  news 
To  heighten  their  aifright. 

**  Though  the  green  forest  rose  the  smoke 
Of  places  burned  the  night  before  ; 

And  from  their  victims,  the  red  scalp 
The  excited  Indian  tore. 


HO  WITT'S  POEMS.  177 

"  This  was  around  us,  yet  we  dwelt 

In  peace  upon  the  forest  bound ; 
Without  defence,  without  annoy, 

The  Indian  camped  all  round. 

"  The  door  was  never  barred  by  night, 
The  door  was  never  closed  by  day ; 

And  there  the  Indians  came  and  went, 
As  they  had  done  alway. 

"  For  *  these  of  Onas  are  the  sons,' 
Said  they,  '  the  upright  peaceful  men ! ' 

Nor  was  harm  done  to  those  who  held 
The  faith  of  William  Penn. 

"But  I  this  while  thought  less  of  peace, 

Than  of  the  camp  and  battle  stir ; 
For  I  had  given  my  young  heart's  love 

Unto  a  British  officer. 

"  Near  us,  within  the  forest-fort, 

He  lay,  leader  of  a  band 
Of  fierce  young  spirits,  sworn  to  sweep 

The  Indian  from  the  land  — 

"  The  native  Indian  from  his  woods  — 

I  deemed  it  cowardly  and  base  ; 
And,  with  a  righteous  zeal  I  pled 

For  the  free  forest-race. 

"  But  he,  to  whom  I  pled,  preferred 

Sweet  pleading  of  another  sort ; 
And  we  met  ever  'neath  the  wood 

Outside  the  forest-fort. 


178  HO  WITT'S  POEMS. 

"  The  Indian  passed  us  in  the  wood, 
Or  glared  upon  us  from  the  brake ; 

But  he,  disguised,  with  me  was  safe, 
For  Father  Onas'  sake. 


"At  length  the  crisis  of  the  war 

Approached,  and  he,  my  soul's  beloved, 

With  his  hot  band,  impatient  grown, 
Yet  further  west  removed. 

"  There  he  was  taken  by  the  foe, 
Ambushed  like  tigers  'mid  the  trees  : 

You  know  what  death  severe  and  dread 
The  Indian  to  his  foe  decrees. 


"  A  death  of  torture  and  of  fire  — - 
Protracted  death  ;  I  knew  too  well, 

Outraged  and  angered,  as  of  late 
Had  been  the  Indian  spirit,  fell 

Would  be  their  vengeance,  and,  to  him, 
•Their  hate  implacable. 

"  When  first  to  me  his  fate  was  told, 
I  stood  amazed,  confounded,  dumb  ; 

Then  wildly  wept  and  wrung  my  hands, 
By  anguish  overcome. 

"  *  Wait,  wait ! '  the  peaceful  people  said ; 

« Be  still  and  wait,  the  Lord  is  good ! ' 
But  when  they  bade  me  trust  and  wait, 

I  went  forth  in  my  anguish  great. 
To  hide  me  in  the  wood. 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  179 

"  I  had  no  fear  ;  the  Indian  race 

To  me  were  as  ray  early  kin : 
And  then  the  thought  came  to  my  brain, 
To  go  forth,  and  from  death  and  pain 

My  best  beloved  to  win. 

"  With  me  my  fair  young  sister  went, 

Long  journeying  on  through  wood  and  swamp: 

Three  long  days'  travel,  ere  we  came 
To  the  great  Indian  camp. 

"  We  saw  the  Indians  as  we  went, 
Hid  'mong  the  grass  with  tiger  ken ; 

But  we  were  safe,  they  would  not  harm 
The  daughters  of  the  peaceful  men. 

"  In  thickets  of  the  woods  at  length 

We  came  to  a  savannah  green ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  open  day, 

The  Indian  camp  was  seen. 

"  I  turned  me  from  that  scene  of  war, 
And  from  the  solemn  council-talk, 

Where  stood  the  warriors,  stern  and  cold, 

War-crested,  and  with  bearing  bold, 

Listening  unto  a  sachem  old, 
Who  held  aloft  a  tomahawk. 

"  I  knew  they  were  athirst  for  blood ; 

That  they  had  pity  none  to  spare  ;  — 
Besides,  bound  to  a  tree,  I  saw 

An  English  captive  there. 


180  no  WITT'S  POEMS. 

"  I  saw  his  war-plume,  soiled  and  torn ; 

I  knew  that  he  was  doomed  to  die  ; 
Pale,  wounded,  feeble,  there  he  stood  ; 

The  ground  was  crimsoned  with  his  blood, 
Yet  stood  he  as  a  soldier  should  — 

Erect,  with  calm,  determined  eye. 

"  I  would  not  he  should  see  me  then,  — 
The  sight  his  courage  had  betrayed ; 

Therefore  unseen  we  stepped  aside, 
Into  the  forest-glade. 

"  An  Indian  woman  there  was  set, 

We  knew  her,  and  to  her  were  known ; 

The  wife  of  a  great  chief  was  she, 

Decked  in  her  Indian  bravery  ; 
Yet  there  she  sat  alone. 

"'  Woman,'  I  said,  the  silence  breaking, 
'  Thou  know'st  us  —  know'st  that  we  belong 

To  peaceful  people,  who  have  ne'er 
Done  to  thy  nation  wrong. 

*      " '  Thou  know'st  that  ye  have  dwelt  with  us, 

As  friend  upon  the  hearth  of  friend ;  — 
When  have  ye  asked  and  been  denied, 
That  this  good  faith  should  end  ? ' 

"  The  Indian  did  not  raise  her  head, 

As  she  replied  in  accents  low, 
*  Why  come  ye  hither  unto  me, 

When  I  am  sitting  in  my  wo  ? ' 


HOWITT'S  POEMS.  181 

•*  *  Woman,'  I  said, '  I  ask  for  life  — 
For  life,  which  in  your  hands  doth  lie ; 

Go  bid  thy  tribe  release  the  bands 
Of  him  now  doomed  to  die ! 

"  *  Go,  Indian  woman,  and  do  this, 
For  thou  art  mighty  with  thy  race ! ' 

The  Indian  made  me  no  reply, 
But  looked  into  my  face. 

"  *  Mighty !  said'st  thou  ? '  at  length  she  spoke, 

'  Mighty !  —  to  one  no  longer  wife  ! 
The  hatchet  and  the  tomahawk 
Lie  by  me  on  the  forest-walk ; 
The  great  chief  in  my  hut  lies  low, 
The  ruthless  pale-face  struck  the  blow  — 

And  yet  thou  com'st  to  me  for  life ! ' 

"  *  By  that  chief's  memory,'  I  cried, 
*  Whom  ne'er  the  peaceful  men  gainsaid ; 

To  whom  the  peaceful  men  were  dear ; 
Rise,  though  thou  stricken  be,  and  aid ! 

"  '  Crave  not  REVENGE,'  and  with  my  words 
My  tears  flowed  fast,  though  hers  were  dry ; 

*But  look  upon  this  pictured  face, 
And  say  if  such  a  one  shall  die ! ' 

*  Long  looked  she  on  the  pictured  face, 
Which  from  my  neck  I  took  and  gave ; 

Long  looked  she  ere  a  word  was  spoke, 

And  then  she  slowly  silence  broke, 

'The  hatchet  is  not  buried  yet; 

The  tomahawk  with  blood  is  wet ; 
And  the  great  chief  is  in  his  grave  ! 

16 


182  no  WITT'S  POEMS 

"  '  Yet  for  the  father  Onas'  sake  — 

For  their  sakes  who  no  blood  have  shed, 
We  will  not  by  his  sons  be  blamed 
For  taking  life  which  they  have  claimed ;  — 
The  red  man  can  avenge  his  dead  !  * 

"  So  saying,  with  her  broken  heart  — 

She  went  forth  to  the  council-stone ; 
And  when  the  captive  was  brought  out, 
'Mid  savage  war-cry,  taunt,  and  shout, 
The  stepped  into  the  fierce  array, 
As  the  bereaved  Indian  may, 

And  claimed  the  victim  for  her  own. 

"  He  was  restored.     What  need  of  more 

To  tell  the  joy  that  thence  ensued ! 
But  sickness  followed  long  and  sore, 
And  he  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more, 
With  our  good,  peaceful  friends  abode. 

"  But  we,  two  plighted  hearts,  were  wed ; 

A  merry  marriage  ye  may  wis  ;  — 
And  guess  ye  me  a  happy  life  — 
In  England  here,  an  honored  wife,  — 

Sweet  friends,  ye  have  not  guessed 


"  But  never  more  let  it  be  said, 

The  red  man  is  of  nature  base ; 
Nor  let  the  crimes  that  have  been  taught, 
Be  by  the  crafty  teachers  brought 
As  blame  against  the  Indian  race !  " 


183) 


MOURNING  ON  EARTH. 

SHE  lay  down  in  her  poverty, 
Toil-stricken,  though  so  youag ; 

And  the  words  of  human  sorrow 
Fell  trembling  from  her  tongue. 

There  were  palace-houses  round  her, 
And  pomp  and  pride  swept  by 

The  walls  of  that  poor  chamber, 
Where  she  lay  down  to  die. 

Two  were  abiding  with  her, 
The  lowly  of  the  earth,  — 

Her  feeble,  weeping  sister, 
And  she  who  gave  her  birth. 

She  lay  down  in  her  poverty, 
Toil-stricken,  though  so  young ; 

And  the  words  of  human  sorrow 
Fell  from  her  trembling  tongue. 

"  Oh  Lord,  thick  clouds  of  darkness 
About  my  soul  are  spread, 

And  the  waters  of  affliction 
Have  gathered  o'er  my  head  ! 

"  Yet  what  is  life  ?    A  desert, 
Whose  cheering  springs  are  dry, 

A  weary,  barren  wilderness !  — 
Still  it  is  hard  to  die ' 


184  HOWITT'S  BOEMS. 

"  For  love,  the  clinging,  deathless, 

Is  with  my  life  entwined  ; 
And  the  yearning  spirit  doth  rebel 

To  leave  the  weak  behind! 

"  Oh  Saviour,  who  didst  drain  the  drega 

Of  human  wo  and  pain, 
In  this,  the  fiercest  trial-hour, 

My  doubting  soul  sustain ! 

"  I  sink,  I  sink !  support  me ; 

Deep  waters  round  me  roll ; 
I  fear!  I  faint!  O  Saviour, 

Sustain  my  sinking  soul!" 


REJOICING  IN  HEAVEN. 

"On  spirit,  freed  from  bondage, 
Rejoice,  thy  work  is  done ! 

The  weary  world  is  'neath  thy  feet, 
Thou  brighter  than  the  sun ! 

"Arise,  put  on  the  garments 
Which  the  redeemed  wore ! 

Now  sorrow  hath  no  part  in  thee, 
Thou  sanctified  from  sin ! 

«  Awake  and  breathe  the  living  air 
Of  our  celestial  clime  ! 


185 


Awake  to  love  which  knows  no  change, 
Thou,  who  hast  done  with  time ! 

"  Awake,  lift  up  thy  joyful  eyes, 
See,  all  heaven's  host  appears ; 

And  be  thou  glad  exceedingly, 
Thou,  who  hast  done  with  tears ! 

"  Awake  !  ascend      Thou  art  not  now 
With  those  of  mortal  birth,  — 

The  living  God  hath  touched  thy  lips, 
Thou  who  hast  done  with  earth ! " 

16* 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


or 


ELIZA    COOK 


A      NEW      EDITION. 


BOSTON : 
PHILLIPS,   SAMPSON,   &    CO., 


110  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1854. 


189) 


MELAIA,  AND   OTHER   POEMS 


MELAIA. 

'TWAS  in  the  age  when  Arts  and  Peace 
Revived  once  more  in  mighty  Greece— 
When  Fame  forsook  the  camp  and  blade, 

And  turned  from  purple  fields  to  wreathe 
Her  meeds  again  for  those  who  bade 

The  canvass  glow,  the  marHi  bnnthe  , 
Twas  in  this  age  Melonian  s*acd 

The  highest  in  his  sculpture  art ; 
Known  as  the  great,  loved  as  the  good ; 

With  hand  but  rivalled  by  his  heart 
His  was  the  power  to  wake  the  gaze, 
Yielding  the  spirit's  speechless  praise  — 
His  was  the  spell  that  flings  control 
Over  the  eye,  breast,  brain,  and  soul ; 

Chaining  our  senses  to  the  stone 
Till  we  becorn ; 
As  fixed  and  dumb 

As  the  cold  form  we  look  upon. 

Melonian  was  about  to  leave 
His  idol  toil  one  summer  eve, 


190 


When  at  his  door  a  stranger  guest 
Appeared,  in  venerable  guise, 
Whose  weight  of  years  had  dimmed  his  eyea, 

And  meekly  lowered  his  "  haught  crest" 
His  garb  was  of  a  shape  and  sort 

T'iat  plainly  augured  little  wealth ; 
But  his  frank  smile  gave  good  report 

Of  rich  content  and  placid  health. 
No  stern  and  frowning  gloom  was  seen 
To  curl  his  lip  or  shade  his  mien ; 
His  bending  limbs,  and  silvered  head, 

Stricken  with  patriarchal  age, 
Gave  ample  sign  that  he  had  read 

Life's  volume  to  its  closing  page. 
Melonian  rose ;  the  stranger  bowed :  — 

"  Artist,"  cried  he  "  I've  come  to  scan 
Thy  blazoned  works,  —  is  it  allowed  ? 
Though  great,  perhaps  thou'rt  not  too  proud 

To  please  an  old  and  curious  man. 
The  restless  wings  of  Rumor  waft 
Fair  tidings  of  thy  works  and  craft ! 
Crowds  speak  of  thee  with  lauding  joy. 
I  like  thy  name,  and  would  employ 
Thy  hand.     Say,  Artist  what  may  be 
The  sum  that  forms  thy  common  fee  ?  " 

The  Sculptor  smiled.     "  Friend !  "  he  exclaimed, 

"  My  charge  may  startle  when  'tis  named. 

Excuse  me,  Stranger,  if  I  say 

I  deem  'tis  more  than  thou  canst  pay. 

Two  thousand  byzantines  I  ask 

For  simplest  form  or  briefest  task." 


COOK'S  POEMS.  191 

"  Two  thousand  !  'tis  indeed  fair  store 
Of  gold,  but  he  deserved  much  more. 
Have  what  thou  wilt,  'tis  ne'er  too  much  ; 

Double  the  sum,  it  shall  be  thine ; 
But  will  thy  chisel  deign  to  touch 

A  form  nor  human  nor  divine  ? 
I  see  thou  hast  a  goodly  band 

Of  gods  and  heroes  scattered  round  ; 
But  I  invoke  thy  master  hand 

To  carve  me  but  a  simple  hound." 

"  A  hound  !  a  dog  !  "  Melonian  cried : 
How's  this,  old  man,  would'st  thou  deride 
My  noble  art  ?  I  blush  with  shame. 
Say,  dost  thou  mock  my  skill  and  fame  ? 
/,  first  in  Greece,  think'st  thou  'twould  suit 
Such  hand  to  carve  a  cur !  —  a  brute  ?  " 

"  Hold  !  "  said  the  Guest     "  I  must  not  hear 

Such  light  words  thrown  to  one  so  dear. 

Long  as  I've  trod  the  world,  I've  found 

Naught  half  so  worthy  as  my  hound ; 

And  thou,  Melonian,  wouldst  not  spurn 

His  claims  and  merit,  didst  thou  learn 

The  strange  and  strong,  nay,  holy  tie 

That  linked  so  firm  and  tenderly. 

Of  all  the  boons  that  men  possess, 

To  aid,  to  cheer,  instruct,  and  bless, 

The  dog,  —  bold,  fond,  and  beauteous  beast  —• 

Is  far  from  either  last  or  least. 

His  love  lives  on  through  change  of  lot ; 

His  faith  will  chain  him  on  our  grave, 
To  howl  and  starve  ;  but  thou  mayst  not 

Have  proved  their  love  and  faith :  I  have. 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

"  Thy  guerdon's  sure  :  look  on  this  ring, 

A  precious,  though  a  bauble,  thing  ; 

The  meanest  jewel  would  suffice 

To  render  safe  thy  utmost  price. 

But  do  my  bidding,  and  the  stone 

Of  richest  lustre  is  thine  own. 

Behold  and  judge ! "  —  The  Sculptor  gazed 

Upon  the  slender  hand  upraised,  | 

And  saw  a  finger  thin  and  white, 

Encircled  with  a  hoop  of  gold, 
Imbedding  diamonds  of  light, 

Nor  loosely  worn  nor  cheaply  sold. — 
"  Speak,"  cried  the  Stranger ;  "  dost  thou  choose 

To  carve  my  dog  ?  decide  and  tell. . . . 
Enough :  I  see  thou  dost  refuse 

The  favor  craved.     Artist,  farewell." 


Melonian  seized  his  hand :  "  Nay,  nay, 

Thy  parting  is  not  thus  with  me ; 
Thy  speech,  thy  bearing  all  betray 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  seem'st  to  be  ; 
There's  more  than  meets  the  eye  and  ear 

In  thee.     Say  who,  and  what  thou  art ! 
I'm  honest,  and  thou  need'st  not  fear 

A  gossip  tongue  nor  traitor  heart. 
May  I  beseech  thee  to  relate 
Thy  secret  pilgrimage  and  fate  ? 
You  start  —  aye,  'tis  a  bold  request ; 
But  you  have  stirred  within  my  breast 
That  quick  and  sudden  interest 
Which  is  not  easily  suppressed. 
The  warmth  you've  kindled  doth  defy 
The  rules  of  gentle  courtesy  ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  198 

And  prompts,  perchance,  to  ruder  word 
And  freer  tone  than  should  be  heard. 
Your  pardon,  if  I  give  offence  ; 

But,  trust  me,  mine's  no  wily  soul  — 

This  fervor,  bursting  all  control, 
Is  not  the  seeming  of  pretence." 


The  Stranger  spoke  not  for  a  while, 
But  strove  to  check  a  rising  sigh, 
And  fixed  his  calm  and  searching  eye 
Upon  the  Sculptor's  brow.     The  smile 
Which  erst  illumed  his  mouth  had  fled, 
And  with  it  every  trace  of  red 
From  cheek  and  lips;  a  change  had  spread 
O'er  his  fair  mien,  as  though  some  deep 
Keen  pangs  had  woke  from  memory's  sleep. 
Where  is  the  one  who  hath  not  had 
Some  anguish  trial,  long  gone  by, 
Steal,  spectre-like,  all  dark  and  sad 
On  busy  thought,  till  the  full  eye 
And  aching  breast  betrayed  too  well 
The  past  still  held  undying  spell  ? 
Some  pensive  vision  of  this  kind 
Seemed  shadowing  the  Stranger's  mind. 

"  My  fate,"  said  he,  "  hath  been  to  see 

And  bear  mortality's  extremes. 
My  days  have  run  'twixt  cloud  and  sun, 

But  oh !  with  more  of  dark  than  beams. 
What  I  was  once  has  been  concealed 

Right  cautiously  from  other  ears  ; 
My4  tongue  has  never  yet  revealed 

The  state  that  marked  my  earlier  years ; 


194  COOK'S  POEMS. 

But  thou  shalt  hear  it.     I  will  trust 
The  earnest  radiance  in  thy  face ; 
'Tis  spirit-lit,  and  I  can  trace 
The  breathing  of  a  soul  all  just. 
Listen,  Melonian  ;  but  I  claim 
Thy  sacred  vow,  that  words  or  name 
Pass  not  thy  lips,  till  death  has  laid 
This  breaking  form  in  peace  and  shade. 
Say,  Sculptor,  dost  thou  yield  thine  oath  ?  " 

"  Ay !  "  cried  Melonian ;  "but  the  troth 

Of  simple  promise  is,  with  me, 

As  strong  a  bond  as  there  can  be. 

My  oath !     Ay,  take  it  if  thou  wilt ; 
Yet  is  that  bosom  base  and  cold, 
And  little  worth,  that  does  not  hold 

A  broken  word  as  meanest  guilt. 

But  stay,  my  friend,  here's  rich  rare  -wine, 

Of  years,  I  ween,  outnumbering  thine  ; 

I  know  its  vintage  to  be  good  ; 

Pour,  fill,  and  drink  —  'twill  warm  thy  blood ; 

Come,  pledge  me  deep,  thy  cheek  is  pale ; 

First  brace  thy  heart,  then  tell  thy  tale." 

The  cup  was  drained,  and  Friendship's  power 
Had  grown  so  great  in  one  short  hour, 
'Twere  difficult  for  host  or  guest 
To  say  which  liked  the  other  best 

"  Now,"  cried  the  Stranger,  "  hear  me  tell 
My  simple  tale  ;  and  mark  me  well, 
Though  my  plain  style  may  sound  uncouth, 
It  yields  naught  else  than  bitter  truth. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  195 

My  long  and  checkered  course  began 
Far  hence,  in  sultry  Hindostan. 
Perchance  I  was  a  monarch's  heir ; 

My  toys,  the  sceptre  and  the  crown; 
Shown  like  an  idol  to  the  stare 
Of  a  vast  nation  ;  taught  to  wear 
A  princely  port,  and  proudly  share 
A  power  I  should  one  day  bear, 

All  kingly  —  all  my  own. 


"  I  know  full  well  ye  cannot  see 

A  trace  of  what  there  once  might  be ; 

My  sand  is  almost  out,  and  now 

Ye  find  but  furrows  on  my  brow. 

I  know  no  records  linger  there, 

Save  those  endorsed  by  age  and  care ; 

Heaven  gives  no  stamp ;  Misfortune's  tide 

Brings  prince  and  peasant  side  by  side ; 

And  who  can  tell  the  monarch  when 

He  ranks  and  herds  with  other  men  ? 


"  Ye  smile,  as  though  it  were  a  thing 
Absurd,  a  jest  to  rouse  your  mirth, 
To  say  my  sire  might  be  a  king, 
And  hold  dominion  o'er  the  earth. 
Yet  such  he  was,  and  such  was  I. 

Nay,  start  not !  —  'Tis  but  empty  sound ; 
Strip  off  the  robes  of  purple  dye, 
Throw  all  the  peacock  trappings  by, 

And  nothing  more  than  man  is  found ; 
And  often  less  —  some  scorpion  worm, 
That  crawls  and  stings  in  human  form ; 


196  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Some  upright  brute,  whose  ruthless  might, 

In  covert  of  a  regal  den, 
Lays  waste  all  mercy,  sense,  and  right, 

Defies  a  God,  and  tramples  men. 
But  who  expects  the  sapling  tree 
To  flourish,  nursed  in  royalty, 
Amid  the  worst  the  world  can  lend 
To  choke  and  tangle,  warp  and  rend, 
'Mid  all  to  blast  the  goodly  shoot, 
And  turn  fair  bloom  to  bitter  fruit  ? 
The  monarch's  glance  hath  little  chance 

To  scan  a  page  in  Nature's  book. 
The  lessons  there  are  sealed  with  care  ; 

He  must  not,  dare  not,  cannot  look. 
Lulled  by  the  songs  that  courtiers  sing, 

No  harsher  music  suffered  near, 
If  Truth  should  whisper,  she  would  ring 

A  strange  alarum  in  his  ear. 
Could  ye  but  see  what  I  have  seen, 

And  know  as  much  as  I  have  known, 
Ye  would  not  wonder  there  have  been 

Such  graceless  tyrants  on  a  throne. 


"  I  had  an  empire  at  my  nod, 

And  ruled  it  like  a  demigod  ; 

I  was  caressed  as  one  divine ; 

Wealth,  might  —  scarce  limited  —  were  mine, 

My  word  could  free  the  veriest  slave, 

Or  doom  the  guiltless  to  a  grave. 

I  was  a  feared  and  homaged  one  ; 

Perched  on  Ambition's  utmost  height, 
And  thought,  as  other  fools  have  done, 

Ne'er  to  be  lower  or  less  bright. 


COOK'S  POEMS,  197 

But  I  was  taught  a  mighty  change, 

In  spirit,  feeling,  place,  and  word ; 
I've  brooked  the  trials,  wild  and  strange, 

Which  some  might  question  if  they  heard. 

"  I've  proved  how  hard  it  is  to  cope 
With  traitors'  blows  and  blasted  hope ; 
I've  drunk  the  cup  of  dark  despair, 

E'en  to  the  dregs  ;  I've  brunted  all 
Of  searing  pain  and  withering  care 

That  Heaven  can  send  to  goad  and  gall ; 
Yet  have  I  stood  the  trying  test, 
And  found  at  last  my  hour  of  rest 

"  Old  age  is  garrulous,  they  say, 

And  this  choice  wine  has  wrought  so  well, 
That  my  tongue  gains  a  swifter  play, 

And  my  lax  heartstrings  warmly  swell. 
But  come,  I'll  speed  my  tale,  and  pray 

None  else  may  have  such  tale  to  tell. 

'*  'Twas  on  the  nightfall  of  a  day, 

When  slaughter's  red  and  fierce  career 

Had  lasted  from  the  breaking  ray, 

Leaving,  as  twilight  died  away, 

Some  thousands  on  one  common  bier. 

"  The  night  came  on,  the  work  was  done, 

The  glory  ours,  the  battle  won  ; 

My  hand  was  tired  of  the  sword, 

And  gladly  to  its  sheath  restored 

The  dripping  blade  ;  for  though  my  life 

Hath  oft  been  risked  in  human  strife, 

17* 


198  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Elate  and  proud  to  have  my  name 
Grow  dreaded  for  its  soldier  fame  ; 
Though  I  have  stumbled  o'er  the  slain, 
'Mid  splintered  bone  and  scattered  brain ; 
Though  I  have  seen  the  streaming  blood 
Drench  the  green  sod  and  tinge  the  flood ; 
Still,  when  the  raging  hour  had  sped, 

I  sighed  to  think  such  things  had  been ; 
And  though  I  helped  to  strew  the  dead, 

I  sickened  at  the  carnage  scene. 
My  soul  was  reckless  in  the  crash 
Of  ringing  shield  and  striking  clash. 
Then  I  had  all  the  tiger's  will, 
And  all  the  lion's  strength,  to  kill ; 
But  when  I  trod  the  dead-strewn  plain, 
With  mercy  at  her  post  again, 
I  felt  a  shuddering  horror  lurk, 
To  think  I'd  mingled  in  such  work. 


"  'Twas  on  the  night  of  such  a  day, 

Exhausted  and  o'erspent, 
1  flung  my  heavy  mail  away, 

And  hied  me  to  my  tent 
There,  close  beside  my  couch,  I  found 
A  young  and  almost  lifeless  hound ; 
Some  random  sword  or  falling  spear 
Had  deeply  gashed  his  neck  and  ear : 
He  panted  fast,  he  freely  bled, 

His  eyeballs  had  a  glazy  beam ; 
He  moaned  with  anguish  as  his  head 

Fell  weltering  in  his  own  life-stream. 
I  asked  who  owned  him — all  were  mute, 

Not  one  stood  forth  to  make  a  claim. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  199 

Who  brought  him  there  ?— None  knew  the  brute, 

Nor  how,  nor  whence,  nor  when  he  came. 
Poor  wretch !    I  could  not  let  him  lie 
Unheeded,  there  to  bleed  and  die : 
The  girdle  from  my  waist  I  tore, 
To  bind  the  wound  and  staunch  the  gore. 

"  'Twas  done ;  I  marked  enough  to  see 

He  was  a  dog  of  noble  breed, 
A  whelp  that  promised  fair  to  be 

The  first  in  beauty,  strength,  and  speed. 
I  liked  the  beast,  and  turned  to  give 
Command  that  I  would  have  him  live 
It  was  enough  ;  he  found  repose, 
Secure  from  further  wounds  and  foes. 


"  Full  soon  he  won  my  right  good-will ; 

I  liked  him  well, 

As  ye  may  tell, 

By  how  he  claims  my  homage  still. 
His  fleetness  held  the  longest  chase ; 
He  never  knew  the  second  place ; 
The  prey  once  seized,  he'd  ne'er  resign 
His  hold  for  any  voice  but  mine ; 
The  bribe  was  vain,  the  threat  defied, 
I  was  his  lord,  and  none  beside. 

"He  did  not  serve  me  for  my  throne, 
Yet  was  he  grateful,  fond,  and  brave , 

He  loved  me  for  myself  alone. 

He  was  that  good  and  gracious  thing, 

That  rare  appendage  to  a  king, 

A  friend  that  never  played  the  slave. 


200  COOK'S  POEMS. 

"  There  was  one  other  tie  to  hold 
My  heart ;  I  never  loved  but  two  ; 

That  other  —  must  the  name  be  told ! 

Yes,  yes,  —  it  was  my  queenly  bride, 

My  worshipped  star,  my  joy,  my  pride : 
But  she  was  false ;  —  my  dog  was  true. 


"  I  saw  her  in  a  lowly  grade, 
Too  bright  a  blossom  for  the  shade  ; 
I  wooed,  but  with  an  honest  love ; 
I  spread  no  snares  to  catch  the  dove ; 
The  bar  of  rank  was  trampled  down, 
I  stooped,  and  raised  her  to  my  crown, 


"  Oh,  how  I  doted  on  her  smile, — 
That  sunbeam  o'er  a  gulf  of  guile  ; 
How  I  adored  her  orbs  of  blue, 
Clear,  full,  and  lustrous  in  their  hue ; 
Rich  as  the  deep  cerulean  light 
Of  autumn's  melting  moonlit  night  1 


"  I!ve  met  their  tender  glance,  half  hid 
Beneath  the  thick-fringed  falling  lid ; 
I've  seen  the  pearly  drops  of  grief 
Swim  like  the  dew  on  violet's  leaf; 
I've  watched  their  pleasure-kindled  ray 
Flash  out  like  summer  lightning's  play; 
And  thought,  had  old  Prometheus  caught 

The  gleaming  spark  from  eyes  like  those, 
He  would  have  found  the  fire  he  sought 

On  earth  —  nor  made  the  gods  his  foes. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  201 

"  Her  golden  hair,  with  glossy  sheen, 

Fell  round  her  temples  rich  and  free, 
With  all  the  graceful  beauties  seen 

In  flowers  of  the  laburnum  tree. 
Her  soft  cheeks  made  the  maple  fade, 

Such  tint,  such  bloom,  was  theirs  alone  ; 
The  sculptor's  art  could  ne'er  impart 

Her  stately  bearing  to  the  stone. 

"  Oh,  why  does  Heaven  bequeath  such  gifU, 

To  fascinate  all  eyes  that  mark, 
With  magnet  charm,  till  something  lifts 

The  mask,  and  shows  how  foully  dark 
The  dazzling  reptile  is  within, 
Beneath  its  painted  harlot  skin  ? 
If  it  were  so,  the  outward  part 
Bore  witness  of  the  mind  and  heart, 
How  many  a  one  must  shun  the  light, 
Or  show  a  leper  to  the  sight ! 

"  I  know  I  carried  much  of  taint, 

That  gave  offence  to  Heaven  and  man , 

But  if  ye  seek  a  sage  or  saint, 

Search  courts,  and  find  him  if  ye  can. 

"  I  was  corrupt,  and  did  much  wrong, 
But  never  breathed  of  harm  to  her ; 

Mine  was  that  passion,  warm  and  strong, 

Which  keeps  its  radiance  pure  and  long, 
However  else  the  soul  may  err. 

I  loved  her  with  a  zeal  intense, 

That  thralled  each  colder,  wiser  sense ; 

I  drank  the  nectar  from  her  lip, 

A.S  bees  the  honeyed  poison  sip  ; 


202  COOK'S  POEMS. 

I 


I  trusted  her,  my  tongue  revealed 

All  —  much  that  should  have  been  concealed ; 

She  labored,  not  in  vain,  to  wrest 

Some  potent  secret  from  my  breast ; 

And  then  she  leagued  with  traitor  band ; 

A  toil  was  spread,  foul  work  was  planned, 

A  rueful  deed  was  to  be  done, 

And  I  the  victim,  —  she  the  one  — 

Oh,  mercy !  have  I  speech  and  breath ! 

She,  she  to  weave  the  mesh  of  death ! 

"  What's  this  upon  my  cheek  ?  a  tear ! 

Weak  drop,  what  business  hast  thou  here  ? 

I  fondly  hoped  the  shattered  string 

Had  been  by  now  a  tuneless  thing ; 

But  touch  it  lightly  as  I  will, 

It  gives  a  mournful  echo  still. 

Oh !  when  the  heart  has  once  been  riven, 

The  wound  will  firmly  close  no  more ; 
Let  Memory's  searching  probe  be  driven, 

It  bleeds  and  quivers,  freshly  sore. 

"  This  must  not  be  ;  —  more  wine,  I  say  ; 
Your  nectar  juice  shall  sweep  away 
The  phantom  pang.     Fill  up  —  I'll  drain 
This  bowl,  and  to  my  tale  again. 

"  She  leagued  with  traitors  !     'Twas  no  dream 

I'd  proof  of  all  the  hellish  scheme ; 

I'd  noticed  much  of  late  to  make 

The  drowsiest  suspicion  wake. 

Strange  glances  interchanged  by  those 

I  guessed  were  less  of  friends  than  foes } 


COOK'S  POEMS.  203 

And  more  than  once  I'd  plainly  heard 

A  whispered  treasonable  word. 

But  these  I  brooked,  and  thought  to  quell 

All  petty  brawls  that  might  betide  ; 
Till  I  beheld  the  Hecate  spell 

Was  conjured  by  my  trusted  bride. 

"  Chance  gave  a  paper  to  my  sight, 

Meant  for  another  eye  to  meet 
It  stated  that  the  coming  night 

Would  render  treachery  complete. 
It  told,  what  fiends  would  scarce  proclaim, 
Of  treason,  murder !  —  and  the  same 
Bore  impress  of  her  seal  and  name.  — 
Mute  with  dismay,  I  still  read  on; 

And  oh !  the  direst  that  could  be, 
I  found  her  very  honor  gone  — 

She  loved  another,  and  not  me. 

"  I  stood  with  fire  in  every  vein ; 

My  pulses  beat  with  frenzied  stroke ; 
I  breathed  with  that  short  heaving  strain 

Which  teaches  what  it  is  to  choke. 
A  moment,  and  there  came  a  chill, 

A  stagnant,  icy  chill,  as  though 
The  blood  recofled,  afraid  to  fill 

A  heart  made  weak  with  such  a  blow. 

"  The  jarring  chaos  could  not  last ; 
Such  struggling  state  is  quickly  past ; 
Such  conflict  is  too  close  and  strong 
For  mortal  strength  to  bear  with  long. 
When  we  have  learned  the  very  worst. 
The  spirit  soon  must  yield,  or  burst 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

"  I  was  betrayed,  ay,  e'en  to  life ; 

Sedition  round,  and  death  in  view. 
i\nd  they  who  see  the  assassin's  knife 

Mast  aptly  think  and  promptly  do. 
My  love  was  wrecked,  my  faith  decieved ; 

The  strokes  that  ever  madden  most 
Without  these,  all  had  been  retrieved ; 

With  them  I  cared  not  what  was  lost 

"  My  kingship  flitted  o'er  my  brain, 
My  pompous  sway,  my  courtier  train  ; 
I  laughed,  and  rent  the  ermine  vest, 

That  only  mocked  my  abject  state; 
I  dashed  the  jewels  from  my  breast, 

And  sought  my  palace  gate. 

"  I  trod  all  soft  and  stealthily  ; 
The  path  was  clear  I  meant  to  fly. 
Ne'er  call  me  coward,  till  ye  bear 

The  test  by  which  I  then  was  tried  ; 
Remember,  had  I  tarried  there, 

The  stroke  was  sure  —  I'd  meanly  died. 

"  I  knew  some  minions  round  me  then 
Were  more  of  demons  than  of  men.* 
Their  aim  was  sure,  if  life  the  mark ; 

Once  set  on  blood,  they'd  keep  the  track, 
And  would  not  scruple  in  the  dark 

To  sheathe  their  dagger  in  my  back. 

"  With  fearful  haste,  I  saddled  straight 
An  Arab  courser,  newly  broke, 

Whose  strength  and  grace  were  fit  to  mate 
With  those  that  form  Apollo's  yoke. 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

Twas  no  meet  moment  to  restrain 
His  mettled  zeal.     Away  he  sped, 
With  tossing  mane 
And  flinging  rein, 
Upon  the  way  he  chose  to  tread. 
The  die  was  cast  —  flight,  instant  flight, 

Alone  could  lend  me  hope  to  live. 
The  monarch-born,  the  gem  bedight, 
The  flattered  god,  the  ever  right, 

Was  now  a  friendless  fugitive. 


"  Away  !  away  !  the  clattering  hoof 

Reechoed  from  the  palace  roof. 

I  fled,  unrivalled  by  the  wind, 

Nor  threw  a  single  glance  behind. 

Crown,  sceptre,  throne — such  dreams  were  ofar; 

Melaia  was  a  king  no  more. 

"  I  fled ;  but  soon  the  deep-toned  bay 
Of  bloodhound  followed  on  my  way  ; 
And  even  now  there's  a  rebound 

Of  joyous  throb,  a  glow  that  steals 
Swift  through  my  frame,  to  tell  I  found 

My  gallant  dog  upon  my  heels. 

"  How  welcome  are  the  words  that  tell 

The  culprit,  doomed  to  death  and  pain, 
That  he  may  quit  his  chains  and  cell, 

And  rove  the  world  all  free  again ! 
How  precious  is  the  ray  of  light 

That  breaks  upon  the  blind  one's  eye, 
Unfolding  to  his  wondering  sight 

The  glorious  scenes  of  earth  and  sky ! 


18 

I 
i 

', 


306  COOKS    POEMS. 

But  never  to  despairing  ear, 

Or  hopeless  orb,  was  aught  so  dear 

As  he  to  me  appeared  to  be 
In  that  dark  hour  of  flight  and  fear. 

"  I  checked  my  steed,  and  lost  some  time, 

To  let  that  dumb  retainer  climb, 

With  whimpering  joy,  and  fondly  greet 

The  hand  he  ever  sprung  to  meet 

I  stooped  above  his  glossy  head, 

And  many  a  streaming  tear  I  shed, 

Ay,  like  a  child  ;  —  but  recollect, 

In  perils  we  must  not  reject 

The  meanest  aid.     The  straw  or  plank 

Will  lure  us  then  to  snatch  and  thank. 

"  I  lingered,  but,  ere  long,  my  ear 
Had  warnings  of  pursuers  near. 
My  rowels  touched  my  Arab's  side ; 
Away  he  leaped  like  rushing  tide, 
That  rolls  to  fling  its  sweeping  waste 
With  furious  all-defying  haste. 

"  On,  on,  we  went,  I  took  no  heed 

How  such  a  strange  career  would  end. 
I  urged  my  barb  to  meteor  speed, 

But  cared  not  where  that  speed  might  tend. 
He  sprung,  he  flew,  as  though  he  knew 

A  frenzied  wretch  was  on  his  back ; 
And  kept  his  pace  for  goodly  space, 

Upon  his  own  free  chosen  track. 
He  bore  me  on  for  many  an  hour, 

With  headlong  sweep,  and  bounding  power 


COOK'S  POEMS.  207 

At  last  he  faltered  on  his  path ; 

I  goaded,  but  the  goad  was  vain. 
Where  was  I  ?  with  the  sun's  full  wrath 

Around  me  on  the  desert  plain. 

"  What  an  unthought-of  goal  I'd  won ! 
Mercy  !  what  wildering  race  I'd  run  ! 
'Twould  soon  be  o'er,  my  failing  horse 
Was  strangely  wheeling  on  his  course 
His  strength  was  out,  his  spirit  flagged, 
His  fire  was  spent,  he  faintly  lagged  ; 
His  dripping  flanks  and  reeking  neck, 
Were  white  with  rifts  of  foaming  fleck. 
His  labored  breath  was  quick  and  short, 
His  nostrils  heaved  with  gasping  snort; 
He  tottered  on,  —  his  will  was  good,  — 
His  work  had  not  belied  his  blood. 

"  Another  mile,  and  then  he  fell. 
His  part  was  o'er  —  he  played  it  well. 
With  snapping  girth,  and  reeling  head, 
He  groaned,  and  sunk,  —  my  steed  was  dead. 

"  Above  me  one  vast  conclave  spread, 
No  dappled  clouds,  no  mellow  blue ; 

Hot,  darting  rays,  like  torches,  shed 
A  light  of  most  unearthly  hue. 

"  Below  was  one  smooth  glittering  sheet, 
That  crisped  and  cracked  beneath  my  feet ; 
No  springing  herb,  no  daisied  sod,  — 
All  barren,  joyless,  and  untrod. 
My  dog  was  fawning  at  my  side, 
Untired  with  my  rapid  ride  ; 


208  COOK'S  POEMS. 

But  I  rebuked  the  sportive  bound, 
That  scattered  choking  dust  around. 

"  My  breath  was  faint,  my  skin  was  dry, 
The  little  moisture  in  my  eye 
Served  but  to  scald  ;  the  striking  beams 
Fell  on  my  form  like  sulphur  streams. 
What  hideous  change  !  I,  who  had  known 
The  sickening  splendor  of  a  throne, 
I,  humbled  wretch,  was  craving  now 
A  moment's  shadow  for  my  brow. 

"  Thus  to  be  left  on  such  a  spot, 

Appeared  the  climax  of  my  lot. 

Death  hovered  there  in  such  gaunt  shape, 

That  Hope  scarce  whispered  of  escape  ; 

But  I  was  not  in  fitting  state 

To  weigh  the  chances  of  my  fate. 

"  I  wended  on  with  hasty  stride, 

'Twixt  torrid  earth  and  brazen  sky, 
Reckless  of  all  that  might  betide, 

To  meet  the  worst,  to  live  or  die. 
But  some  conjecture,  quick  and  wild, 
Flashed  sudden  o'er  me,  and  beguiled 
To  flattering  Hope.     I  vaguely  guessed 
That  nigh  the  desert,  in  the  west, 
A  city  stood.     That  thought  inspired 
And  held  me  on  a  while  untired. 

"  I  doubted  if  my  wasting  strength 
Could  last  the  unknown  burning  length. 
It  might ;  yet,  oh !  'twas  fearful  risk. 
To  toil  between  the  blazing  disk 


COOK'S  POEMS.  201) 

Of  eastern  sun  and  shining  sand, 
With  lips  unmoistened,  cheek  unfanned. 
'Twas  frightful  ordeal,  but  yet 
Dire  evils  pass  if  boldly  met 

"  I  will  not  tire  thy  patient  ear 

With  tedious  detail  of  my  wo ; 
But  bring  my  rambling  speech  to  bear 

On  that  I  wish  thee  most  to  know. 

'  Hour  after  hour  brought  on  the  night, 
With  something  less  of  heat  and  light 
You  may  believe  I  was  outworn  ; 
And  trembling,  famished,  and  forlorn. 
I  flung  me  on  the  dewless  ground, 

And  fast  and  bitter  tears  I  wept, 
Till  pillowed  on  my  faithful  hound, 

Like  a  tired  child,  I  sobbed,  and  slept 

"  Slumber  like  mine  wrought  little  good, 

I  started  as  the  sun  uprose, 

And  fancied  that  my  boiling  blood 

Had  gathered  torture  from  repose. 
I  felt  my  temples  glow,  and  beat 
With  faster  pulse  and  fiercer  heat 
I  would  have  wept  again,  but  now 
My  very  tears  refused  to  flow. 

"  I  woke  —  I  lived,  to  meet,  to  bear 
With  famine,  thirst,  and  blank  despair : 
I  cast  my  eager  straining  eye 
From  sky  to  sand,  from  sand  to  sky  ; 
No,  no  relief!  my  hound  and  I 

Were  all  that  broke  the  vacancy. 

is* 


210 


"  The  whirling  blast,  the  breaker's  dash, 
The  snapping  ropes,  the  parting  crash, 
The  sweeping  waves  that  boil  and  lash, 
The  stunning  peal,  the  hissing  flash, 
The  hasty  prayer,  the  hopeless  groan, 
The  stripling  sea-boy's  gurgling  tone, 
Shrieking  amid  the  flood  and  foam, 
The  names  of  mother,  love,  and  home ; 
The  jarring  clash  that  wakes  the  land, 
When,  blade  to  blade,  and  hand  to  hand, 
Unnumbered  voices  burst  and  swell, 
In  one  unceasing  war-whoop  yell ; 
The  trump  of  discord  ringing  out, 
The  clamor  strife,  the  victor  shout :  — 
Oh !  these  are  noises  any  ear 
Will  dread  to  meet  and  quail  to  hear ! 
But  let  the  earth  or  waters  pour 
The  loudest  din  or  wildest  roar ; 
Let  Anarchy's  broad  thunders  roll, 

And  Tumult  do  its  worst  to  thrill, 
There  is  a  silence  to  the  soul 

More  awful,  and  more  startling  still 


"  To  hear  our  very  breath  intrude 

Upon  the  boundless  solitude, 

Where  mortal  tidings  never  come, 

With  busy  feet  or  human  hum ; 

All  hushed  above,  beneath,  around  — 

No  stirring  form,  no  whispered  sound  ;  — 

This  is  a  loneliness  that  falls 

Upon  the  spirit,  and  appals 

More  than  the  mingled  rude  alarms 

Arising  from  a  world  in  arms. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  211 

"  This  is  a  silence  bids  us  shrink, 
As  from  a  precipice's  brink ; 
But  ye  will  rarely  meet  it,  save 
In  the  hot  desert,  or  cold  grave. 
Cut  off  from  life  and  fellow  men, 
This  silence  was  around  me  then. 
'Twas  horrible,  but  once  again 
I  dragged  along  the  scorching  plain, 
Till  the  consuming  orb  of  day 
Shot  down  the  close  meridian  ray. 

"  Exhausted  nature  now  had  done 
Its  utmost  'neath  a  desert  sun, 
And  moments  of  delirium  came ; 
A  staggering  weakness  seized  my  frame ; 
My  feet  refused  their  task,  when,  lo! 
My  gaze  met 
Many  a  minaret 
A  city  rose  ;  'twas  nigh  ;  but,  oh  ! 

The  beacon  star  now  shone  in  vain ; 

Though  short  the  space,  I  ne'er  could  gain 
That  other  league.     My  limbs,  my  heart, 
All  failed  ;  I  felt  my  sinews  start 
With  the  last  shudder  of  despair ; 
And  Hope  expired  —  my  grave  was  there. 

"  'Twas  thirst,  'twas  maddening  thirst  alone, 

That  wrung  my  spirit's  inmost  groan. 

Hunger  is  bitter,  but  the  worst 

Of  human  pangs,  the  most  accursed 

Of  Want's  fell  scorpions,  is  thirst 

"  I  looked  upon  this  precious  ring, 
That  few  besides  a  king  could  buy 


212  COOK'S  POEMS. 

What  was  its  value,  would  it  bring 
A  cup  of  water  ?    No  !  its  gleam, 
That  flashed  back  to  the  brazen  beam, 
But  taunted  with  its  brilliancy. 

"  My  strange  distempered  fancy  wrought 

The  doom  of  Tantalus  ;  for  naught 

Broke  on  my  frantic  waking  dream 

But  the  deep  well  and  limpid  stream: 

Distorted  vision  conjured  near 

All  that  is  cool,  fresh,  moist,  and  clear. 

I  saw  the  crystal  fountain  play 

In  leaping  sheets  of  snowy  spray ; 

I  heard  the  undulating  wave 

Of  the  swift  river  gush  and  lave ; 

I  saw  the  dew  on  grass  and  flower ; 

I  heard  the  gentle  summer  shower, 

With  its  soft  pattering  bubbles  drip ; 
I  heard  the  dashing  waterfall  — 
Oh !  it  was  cruel  mockery  all. 

I  laughed,  and  then  my  shrunken  lip 
Oozed  thickened  gore ;  with  upraised  hand, 
I  sunk  upon  the  shining  sand, 
A  Maker's  mercy  to  implore. 

I  fervently  invoked  a  name 

Which,  I  confess  with  much  of  shame, 
I'd  rarely  called  upon  before. 

"  Mid  pleasure,  plenty,  and  success, 
Freely  we  take  from  Him  who  lends  ; 

We  boast  the  blessings  we  possess, 
Yet  scarcely  thank  the  One  who  sends. 

But  let  Affliction  pour  its  smart, 

How  soon  we  quail  beneath  the  rod ' 


COOK'S  POEMS,  213 

With  shattered  pride,  and  prostrate  heart, 

We  seek  the  long-forgotten  God. 
Let  Him  but  smite  us,  soon  we  bleed, 
And  tremble  like  a  fragile  reed  ; 
Then  do  we  learn,  and  own,  and  feel 
The  Power  that  wounds  alone  can  heal. 
Twas  thus  with  me  ;  the  desert  taught 

Lessons  with  bitter  truth  replete. 
They  chastened  sorely,  but  they  brought 

My  spirit  to  its  Maker's  feet 

"  My  glance  was  for  a  moment  thrown 

Towards  the  Heaven  I  addressed  ; 
But  the  fierce  rays  came  rushing  down 
Upon  my  brow 
With  furnace  glow, 
Dense,  lurid,  red, 
Till  my  smote  head 
Fell  faint  and  stricken  on  my  breast 

"  Thus  while  I  knelt  my  hound  looked  up  — 

Fate  was  about  to  give  the  last, 
The  o'erflowing  drop  to  Misery's  cup  — 

He  started,  fled,  and  bounded  fast 

"  Oh !  what  a  moment !  all  the  past 
Was  blended  in  that  little  space. 
He  fled  me  at  his  utmost  pace  ; 
Like  arrow  from  the  string  he  flew 
Right  on  —  he  lessened  to  my  view. 
'Twas  o'er ;  he  vanished  from  my  sight; 
I  breathed  his  name,  and  groaned  outright 

I  was  alone ; 

My  dog  had  gone  — 


214  COOK'S  POEMS. 

He  that  I  deemed  the  firmly  true  — 
In  the  last  hour  he  left  me  too. 


"  I  saw  no  more  ;  I  snatched  my  breath 
Like  those  who  meet  a  drowning  death ; 
One  cry  of  hopeless  agony 
Escaped  my  lips,  while  earth  and  sky 
Grew  dark,  and  reeled  before  mine  eye. 
A  whirling  pang  shot  through  my  brain, 

Of  mingled  madness,  fire,  and  pain. 
'Twas  rending,  but  it  was  the  last. 

Thank  God,  it  came  like  lightning  flame, 
And  desolated  as  it  past. 

"  No  more  of  this  ;  I  only  know, 
I  felt  strange  pressure  on  my  brow ; 
The  world  was  not ;  I  can  but  tell, 
That  senseless,  lone,  and  blind,  I  fell, 

"  The  next  that  memory  can  mark 
Is  of  a  clear  and  shrill-toned  bark. 
Sense  tardily  came  back  ;  I  woke 
Beneath  a  gentle  pawing  stroke. 
I  gazed  with  wild  and  doubting  stare  — 
My  dog  !  my  noble  dog  was  there  — 
It  was  my  Murkim  that  I  saw, 
With  blood,  wet  blood,  upon  his  jaw. 
What  sight  for  eyes  like  mine  to  meet ! 
I  shrieked,  I  started  to  my  feet 
Judge  of  my  joy  ;  beside  him  lay 
A  small  and  lifeless  beast  of  prey. 
I  seized  it ;  I  was  in  no  mood 
To  play  the  epicure  in  food  ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  215 

I  waited  not  to  think  on  what 
That  prey  might  be,  or  whence  'twas  got 
Had  you  but  seen  me  clutch  and  fall, 
Like  famished  wolf  or  cannibal, 
Upon  that  mangled,  raw  repast, 
My  hands,  my  teeth,  all  tearing  fast ; 
Had  you  beheld  my  dry  lips  drain 
The  current  from  each  reeking  vein ! 

No  nectar  half  so  sweet  or  fresh  ; 

Oh,  it  was  rare  delicious  fare ; 
I  never  quaffed  such  lucious  draught, 

Nor  tasted  viand  like  that  flesh. 
It  soothed  my  brain,  it  cooled  my  eye, 

It  quenched  the  fire  upon  my  brow ; 
It  gave  me  breath,  strength,  energy ; 
And,  looking  to  the  city  nigh, 

I  felt  that  I  could  reach  it  now. 
Could  I  do  less  than  kneel  and  bless 
My  Saviour  in  the  wilderness  ? 
But  what  will  all  of  speech  avail  ? 
The  choicest  eloquence  would  fail ; 
The  feeling  that  absorbed  my  heart 

Was  of  that  deep  entrancing  kind 

Which  doth  defy  the  lips  to  find 
A  fitting  language  to  impart 
Its  glowing  zeal  and  passionate  start. 
My  lips  would  falter  to  discuss 

The  sense  he  kindled  in  my  breast  • 
My  dog  had  snatched  from  death,  and  thus  •— 

I  leave  thee  to  suppose  the  rest. 


Again  I  took  my  onward  way, 
Once  more  I  tracked  the  desert  ground ; 


216  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Again  I  knelt  to  thank,  to  pray, 
Nor  deem  me  impious,  if  I  say 

That  next  to  God  I  held  my  hound. 


"  I  reached  the  city ;  many  a  year 

Has  rolled  away, 

Since  that  long  day, 
But  yet,  behold  this  truant  tear 
Proclaims  that  trying  day  is  set 
Among  the  few  we  ne'er  forget. 

"  Methinks  I'm  getting  sad  —  and  see, 

The  sun's  behind  yon  orange  tree  : 

'Tis  well  my  tale  holds  little  more ; 

It  wearies,  and  I  wish  it  o'er. 

Some  time,  perchance,  when  thou'rt  inclined, 

I'll  yield  thee  more  of  what  befell 
The  throne  and  bride  I  left  behind : 

But  now  I  do  not  care  to  dwell 
On  what,  to  me, 
Will  ever  be 
A  most  ungrateful  theme  to  tell. 

"  I  walked  the  world  unmarked,  unknown, 
Remote  from  man,  but  not  alone  ; 
I  kept  one  friend,  the  closely  bound, 
The  dear,  the  changeless,  in  my  hound, 
He  had  become  my  spirit's  part, 

And  rarely  did  he  leave  my  side ; 
He  shared  my  board,  my  couch,  my  heart, 

Till,  pressed  by  time,  he  drooped,  and  died 
Of  sheer  old  age.     Why,  Murkim,  why 
Did  not  Melaia  too  then  die  ! 


COOK'S  POEMS.  217 

I  miss  thee  still,  I  mourn  thee  yet 
But  lo  !  again  my  cheek  is  wet 
Fool  that  I  am  —  this  will  not  do  — 
Artist,  this  suits  nor  me  nor  you : 
My  words  have  just  worn  down  the  sun, 
One  question,  friend,  and  I  have  done. 

"  I've  told  thee  how  he  bore  and  braved 

The  darkest  checker  in  my  lot ; 
You  know  his  worth  ;  he  served  and  saved. 

Now,  wilt  thou  carve  my  dog,  or  not  ?" 


Pillars  have  mouldered,  ages  waned, 

Since  this  plain  tale  beguiled  an  hour ; 
And  Time  and  War  had  both  profaned 

The  glory-seat  of  arts  and  power ; 
Famed  Greece,  the  beautiful  and  great, 
Was  but  a  wrecked  and  fallen  state  ; 
She  was  but  as  a  funeral  urn, 

Holding  the  ashes  worlds  revere, 
O'er  which  the  coldest  heart  will  mourn, 

And  strangers  hang  to  shed  the  tear : 
Each  monument  was  laid  in  dust, 

By  some  ungodly  savage  hand  ; 
Her  palace  gates  had  gathered  rust, 

Her  picture  scrolls  had  fed  the  brand : 
When,  mid  the  relics  scattered  round 
One  of  surpassing  skill  was  found ; 
The  work  was  rare, 
The  marble  fair, 

The  form,  a  bold  and  couchant  hound. 
ID 


218  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  old  and  wise,  with  judgment  stern, 
In  curious  search  were  seen  to  turn 
With  careless  glance  from  all  the  rest, 
And  own  that  image  first  and  best: 
The  artist  boy  was  seen  to  pause, 
Ecstatic  in  his  rapt  applause. 
No  idle  wanderer  passed  it  by, 
But  marked  with  brighter,  closer  eye. 
They  lingered  there  to  ask  and  trace 

The  legend  such  a  form  might  lend  ; 
But  naught  was  known  save  what  its  base 

Told,  in  the  words,  "  Melaia's  Friend." 


(219) 


A    ROMAUNT. 

v 

— 

Xi 

TRACY  DE  VORE  AND  HUBERT  GREY. 

A    TALE. 

KNOW  ye  not  the  stripling  child 

That  strolls  from  the  castle  wall, 
To  play  with  the  mate  he  likes  the  best, 

By  the  mountain  waterfall  ? 

With  delicate  hand,  and  polished  skin, 

Like  Parian  marble  fair ; 
Know  ye  him  not  ?    'Tis  Tracy  de  Vore, 

The  Baron's  beautiful  heir. 

'Tis  Tracy  de  Vore,  the  castle's  pride, 

The  rich,  the  nobly  born, 
Pacing  along  the  sun-lit  sod 

With  the  step  of  a  playful  fawn. 

The  waving  plume  in  his  velvet  cap 

Is  bound  with  a  golden  band  ; 
His  rich  and  broidered  suit  exhales 

The  breath  of  Arabia's  land. 


His  light  and  fragile  form  is  graced 
With  a  girdle  of  silvered  blue ; 


220  COOK'S  POEMS. 

And  of  matchless  azure  the  belt  would  seem, 
Were  it  not  for  his  eyes'  own  hue. 

Look  on  those  eyes,  and  thou  wilt  find 

A  sadness  in  their  beam, 
Like  the  pensive  shade  that  willows  cast 

On  the  sky-reflecting  stream. 

Soft-flowing  curls  of  an  auburn  shade 

Are  falling  around  his  brow  ! 
There's  a  mantling  blush  that  dwells  on  his  cheek, 

Like  a  rose-leaf  thrown  on  the  snow. 

There's  a  halcyon  smile  spread  o'er  his  face, 
Shedding  a  calm  and  radiant  grace ; 
There's  a  sweetness  of  sound  in  his  talking  tones, 
Betraying  the  gentle  spirit  he  owns. 

And  scarcely  an  accent  meets  his  ear 

But  the  voices  of  praise  and  love  ; 
Caressed  and  caressing,  he  lives  in  the  world 

Like  a  petted  and  beautiful  dove. 

He  is  born  to  bear  the  high  command 

Of  the  richest  domain  in  Switzerland  ; 

And  the  vassals  pray  that  fame  and  health 

May  bless  the  child  of  rank  and  wealth ! 

Oh  !  truly  does  every  lip  declare 

What  a  cherub-like  boy  is  Lord  Tracy's  heir  ! 


And  now  on  the  green  and  sedgy  bank 


Another  stripling  form  is  seen : 


COOK'S  FOEMS.  221 

His  garb  is  rough,  his  halloo  loud  ; 
He  is  no  baron's  heir,  I  ween. 

Know  ye  him  not  ?  'tis  the  mountain  child, 
Born  and  reared  'mid  the  vast  and  the  wild ; 
And  a  brighter  being  ne'er  woke  to  the  day 
Than  the  herdsman's  son,  young  Hubert  Grey 

There's  a  restless  flashing  in  his  eye, 

That  lights  up  every  glance  ; 
And  now  he  tracks  the  wheeling  bird ; 
And  now  he  scans  the  distant  herd ; 
And  now  he  turns  from  earth  and  sky, 

To  watch  where  the  waters  dance. 

A  ruddy  tinge  of  glowing  bronze 

Upon  his  face  is  set ; 
Closely  round  his  temples  cling 

Thick  locks  of  shaggy  jet. 

Mark  him  well !  there's  a  daring  mien 
In  Hubert  Grey  that  is  rarely  seen ; 
And  suiting  that  mien  is  the  life  he  leads, 
Where  the  eagle  soars,  and  the  chamois  feeds. 

He  loves  to  climb  the  steepest  crag, 

Or  plunge  in  the  rapid  stream  ; 
He  dares  to  look  on  the  thunder  cloud, 

And  laugh  at  the  lightning's  gleam. 

The  snow  may  drift,  the  rain  may  fall, 

But  what  does  Hubert  care  ? 
As  he  playfully  wrings,  with  his  hardy  hand 

His  drenched  and  dripping  hair. 


222 


He  can  tread  through  the  forest,  or  over  the  rocks, 

In  the  darkest  and  dreariest  night, 
With  as  sure  a  step,  and  as  gay  a  song, 

As  he  can  in  the  noonday's  light. 

The  precipice,  jutting  in  ether  air, 

Has  naught  of  terror  for  him  ; 
He  can  pace  the  edge  of  the  loftiest  peak 

Without  trembling  of  heart  or  limb. 

He  heeds  not  the  blast  of  the  winter  storm, 
Howling  on  o'er  the  pine-covered  steep ; 

In  the  day  he  will  whistle  to  mimic  its  voice, 
In  the  night  it  lulls  him  to  sleep. 

And  now  he  has  brought,  from  his  mountain  honm 

(With  feet  and  forehead  bare,) 
A  tiny  boat,  and  lance-wood  bow, 
The  work  of  his  young  hand  I  trow, 

To  please  the  Baron's  heir  ; 
And  now,  at  the  waterfall,  side  by  side, 
Stand  the  herdsman's  son  and  the  castle's  pride ! 


Tracy  de  Vore  hath  high  born  mates 

Invited  to  share  his  play ; 
But  none  are  half  so  dear  to  him 

As  lowly  Hubert  Grey. 

He  hath  a  spaniel  taught  to  mark, 
And  wait  his  word  with  a  joyous  bark ; 
He  hath  a  falcon  taught  to  fly 
When  he  looses  its  silver  chain  ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  223 

To  range,  at  his  bidding,  round  the  sky, 
Then  seek  his  hand  again. 

His  ear  is  used  to  the  softest  song ; 

To  the  lute  and  gay  guitar ; 
But  the  native  strain  of  the  herdsman's  son 

Is  sweeter  to  him  by  far ! 

He  hath  toys  and  trinkets,  bought  with  gold ; 

And  a  palfrey  in  the  stall ; 
But  Hubert's  bow,  and  Hubert's  boat,  — 

Oh,  they  are  worth  them  all ! 


And  Hubert  Grey  hath  learnt  to  love 

The  smile  of  Tracy  de  Vore ; 
He  delights  in  leading  the  timid  boy 

Where  he  never  trod  before. 

He  teaches  him  how  to  note  the  hours, 

By  where  the  sunbeams  rest ; 
He  wades  for  him  where  the  virgin  flowers 
Gracefully  bend  'neath  the  cascade's  showers, 

To  pluck  the  whitest  and  best 
He  tells  him  the  curious  legends  of  old, 

Known  by  each  mountaineer ; 
He  tells  him  the  story  of  ghost  and  fay ; 

Waking  his  wonder  and  fear. 

Never  so  joyful  is  Hubert's  shout 
As  when  his  eagle-eyes  look  out, 
And  spy  afar,. in  the  plain  below, 
Young  Tracy's  cap  with  its  plume  of  snow. 


224  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Never  so  glad  is  Tracy  de  Vore 

As  when  he  can  steal  away 
From  his  father's  watchful  doting  care, 

To  rove  with  Hubert  Grey. 

And  now,  at  the  waterfall,  side  by  side, 
Stand  the  Herdsman's  son  and  the  Baron's  pride  I 
The  summer  beams  are  falling  there 
On  the  mountain  boy  and  the  noble  heir ! 


Time  flies  on,  a  year  has  sped, 

And  summer  comes  again : 
The  sun  is  shining  warm  and  bright, 

O'er  forest,  hill,  and  plain ! 

But  never  again  will  Tracy  de  Vore 

Stroll  from  the  castle  wall, 
To  play  with  the  one  he  loves  the  best, 

By  the  mountain  waterfall. 

There's  silence  in  the  mansion  now ; 

Loud  mirth  is  turned  to  sighing; 
The  Baron  weeps,  the  vassals  mourn, 

For  the  noble  heir  is  dying ! 

Look  on  the  lip  that  so  sweetly  smiled, 
The  cheek  that  was  freshly  fair ; 

Oh,  cruelly  sad  is  the  tale  they  tell ! 
Consumption  revels  there. 

With  panting  breath,  and  wasting  frame, 
The  languid  boy  lives  on, 


COOK'S  POEMS  225 

With  just  enough  of  life  to  show 
That  life  will  soon  be  gone  ! 

Pallid  and  weak,  he  is  slowly  led, 
Like  an  infant,  from  his  downy  bed  ; 
He  turns  his  dimmed  and  sunken  eye 
To  look  once  more  upon  the  sky  ; 
But,  ah !  he  cannot  bear  the  rays 
Of  a  glowing  sun  to  meet  his  gaze. 

He  breathes  a  sigh,  and  once  again 
Looks  out  upon  the  grassy  plain ; 
He  sees  his  milk-white  palfrey  there, 
His  own  pet  steed,  so  sleek  and  fair ; 
But  there's  no  silken  rein  to  deck 
The  beauty  of  his  glossy  neck  ; 
No  saddle-cloth  is  seen  to  shine 

Upon  its  sides  —  the  steed  doth  lack 
A  coaxing  hand,  and  seems  to  pine, 

To  miss  the  one  that  graced  its  back. 

Young  Tracy  stands,  his  azure  eye 
Dwells  fondly  on  the  favorite  brute  ; 

The  struggling  tear-drop  gathers  fast, 
But  still  his  lip  is  mute. 

He  looks  once  more  in  the  castle  court, 
The  scene  of  many  a  festive  sport ; 
He  sees  his  spaniel  dull  and  lone, 
He  hears  its  plaintive  whining  tone ; 
He  looks  beyond  the  castle  wall, 
Where  he  used  to  play  by  the  waterfall ; 
He  thinks  on  the  days  of  health  and  joy, 
When  he  roved  abroad  with  the  mountain  boy 


320  COOK'S  TOEMS. 

And  the  gushing  tears  start  down  his  cheek, 
His  eyelids  fall  —  he  cannot  speak  — 
He  turns  away  —  a  damask  couch 

Receives  his  fainting  form : 
Exhausted,  trembling,  pale,  he  sinks, 

Like  a  lily  from  the  storm ! 


The  mother  sits  beside  the  couch, 

Her  arm  around  him  thrown, 
And  bitterly  she  grieves  above 

Her  beautiful,  her  own  ! 

He  is  dying  fast  —  he  murmurs  forth 

The  name  of  Hubert  Grey,— 
"  Where  —  where  is  he  I  love  so  well  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  to-day  ? 

"  Oh !  bring  him  to  me  ere  I  die  "  — 

Enough  —  away  !  away  ! 
With  eager  speed  dash  man  and  steed, 

To  summon  Hubert  Grey  ! 

And  where  is  he  ?  the  herdsman's  son, 
The  bold,  the  bright,  the  dauntless  one ! 
The  dew  is  off  the  shadiest  spot, 
The  noon  is  nigh  —  why  comes  he  not  ? 

Long  since,  the  mountain  boy  was  brougnt 

Within  the  castle  gate  ; 
For  none  could  soothe  the  pining  heir, 

Like  his  old  and  lowly  mate. 

And,  true  as  sunrise,  with  the  dawn 
Hath  Hubert  bent  his  steps  at  morn 


COOK'S  POEMS.  227 

Over  the  crags  where  torrents  roar, 
To  tarry  till  night  with  Tracy  de  Vore ! 
But  where  is  he  now  ?  the  sun  is  hot, 
The  noon  is  past  —  why  comes  he  not  ? 

The  vassal  Oswald  wends  his  way : 

To  Hubert's  home  he  hies  ; 
To  the  herdsman's  hut  that  stands  alone, 
Where  cataract  streams  dash  wildly  on, 

Where  giant  mountains  rise. 

He  calls  aloud :  "  Hist,  Hubert  Grey ! 
Quick !  back  with  me  on  the  gallant  bay ! 

Why  have  ye  kept  so  long  away  ? 
The  darling  heir  is  dying  fast ; 
This  day,  this  hour  may  be  his  last !  — 

Come,  haste  thee,  quick,  I  say ! " 

The  door  flings  back  —  the  herdsman's  wife 
Comes  forth  with  wondering  look  ; 

"  'Tis  strange ! "  she  cries,  "  three  hours  ago 

He  started,  with  his  staff  and  bow, 
And  the  castle  way  he  took! 

"  He  talked  of  gathering  for  the  heir 

A  bunch  of  wild-flowers,  sweet  and  rare  — 

He  talked  of  climbing  Morna's  height, 

Where  the  large  blue-bells  grow ; 
They  overhang  —  yes,  yes  —  oh  Heaven !  — 

That  dark  ravine  below  ! 

"  Hubert !  my  child !  where  art  thou  gone  ? 

Thy  mother  calls  to  thee  !  " 
No  answer!  — "To  the  rock!"  she  cries — 

"  On,  Oswald  !  on  with  me  !  " 


238  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Together,  up  the  craggy  path, 

Speed  Oswald  and  the  herdsman's  wife: 

She  calls  and  listens  —  calls  again  — 
Her  heart  with  fear  is  rife. 

And  Oswald  gives  the  well-known  sign ; 

He  whistles  shrill  and  clear ; 
He  winds  his  horn,  and  blows  the  blast 

That  Hubert  loved  to  hear. 

But  ah  !  the  whistle  and  the  horn 

Are  only  echoed  back  ; 
No  Hubert  comes  —  and  now  they  reach 

The  highest  mountain  track. 

The  foot  of  Oswald  presses  on 

Right  cautiously  and  slow  ; 
For  few  would  dare,  like  Hubert  Grey, 

Near  Morna's  edge  to  go ! 

The  dark  gulf  breaks  with  frightful  yawn, 

Terrific  to  the  gaze ; 
A  murky  horror  shades  the  spot, 

Beneath  meridian  rays. 

But  hush !  —  that  sound  —  a  hollow  moan  —  • 

Again,  a  stifled,  gurgling  groan ! 

The  mother  stands,  nor  speaks,  nor  moves, 

Transfixed  with  mute  dismay  ! 
The  vassal  fears,  his  footsteps  shrink, 
He  trembles  as  he  gains  the  brink ; 
He  shudders,  looks  with  straining  eyes 
Adown  the  abyss  —  "  Oh  God ! "  he  cries, 

"  Tis  he  —  'tis  Hubert  Grey ! " 


COOK  S    POEMS.  22 

Yes,  yes,  'tis  he !  —  the  herdsman's  son  — 
The  bold,  the  bright,  the  dauntless  one ! 
He  hath  bent  him  o'er  to  reach  the  flowers 

That  spring  along  the  dreaded  steep ; 
His  brain  grows  dizzy  —  yet  again  — 
He  snatches,  totters,  shrieks,  in  vain  — 

He  falls  ten  fathoms  deep ! 

The  groan  that  met  his  mother's  ear 

Gave  forth  his  latest  breath  ; 
The  mountain  boy  is  sleeping  fast 

The  dreamless  sleep  of  death  ! 

Thrown  wildly  back,  his  clotted  hair 
Leaves  his  gashed  forehead  red  and  bare. 
Look  on  his  cheek  —  his  dauntless  brow  — 
Oh  God,  there's  blood  upon  them  now ! 
His  hand  is  clenched  with  stiffened  clasp, 
The  wild-flowers  still  within  its  grasp : 

The  vulture  perched  upon  the  crag,       * 

Seems  waiting  for  its  prey ; 
The  vulture  that,  at  morning's  light, 

His  halloo  scared  away. 

Stretched  like  a  lion-cub  he  lies ; 
As  wild  he  lived,  as  lonely  dies  ; 
The  mountain-born,  the  free,  the  brave, 
Too  soon  hath  found  a  mountain-grave. 
And  many  an  eye  shall  weep  his  fate, 

And  many  a  heart  shall  rue  the  day ; 
For  a  brighter  being  ne'er  had  life 

Than  the  herdsman's  son,  young  Hubert  Grey 


COOKS    POEMS. 

And  Tracy  de  Vore,  the  Baron's  heir, 
The  meek,  the  cherub-like,  the  fair, 
He  is  sinking  to  eternal  rest, 
Soft  pillowed  on  his  mother's  breast; 
He  knows  not  that  his  lowly  mate 
Hath  met  so  horrible  a  fate. 

No  dark  convulsion  shakes  his  frame  ; 

No  change  comes  o'er  his  face  ; 
The  icy  hand  hath  touched  his  heart, 

But  left  no  scathing  trace. 

One  murmuring  sigh  escapes  his  lip ; 

The  sweetest  toned,  the  last ; 
Like  the  faint  echo  harp-strings  give 

Of  thrilling  music  past 

The  signet  seal  of  other  worlds 

Falls  softly  on  his  brow ; 
He  seemed  but  sleeping  when  it  came, 

He  seems  but  sleeping  now. 

For  death  steals  softly  and  smilingly 

To  close  his  earthly  day  ; 
Like  the  autumn  breeze  that  gently  wafts 

The  summer  leaf  away. 

The  Baron  weeps  ;  his  look  declares 

All  hope,  all  joy  has  fled ; 
His  soul's  adored,  his  house's  pride, 

His  only  born,  is  dead. 
The  castle  is  dark  —  no  sound  is  heard 

But  the  wailing  of  deep  despair ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  231 

The  lord  and  the  vassal  are  mourning  aloud 

For  the  well  loved,  noble  heir ! 
Oh,  truly  does  every  heart  deplore 

The  young  and  beautiful  Tracy  de  Vore ! 


And  sorrow  hath  found  a  dwelling-place 

In  the  herdsman's  lowly  hut ; 
The  door  is  fast  against  the  sun, 

The  casement  is  closely  shut 

Death  gave  no  warning  there,  but  struck 

With  a  fierce  and  cruel  blow ; 
Like  the  barb  that  sinks  from  hand  unseen 

In  the  heart  of  the  bounding  roe. 

The  mother  laments  with  a  maniac's  grief; 

Her  sobbing  is  bitterly  loud ; 
Her  eye  is  fixed  on  her  mangled  boy, 

As  he  lies  in  his  winding  shroud. 

The  herdsman's  voice  hath  lost  its  tone  ; 

His  brow  is  shaded  o'er  ; 
There's  a  hopeless  anguish  in  his  breast, 

That  he  never  felt  before. 

There's  a  tear  on  his  cheek  when  the  sun  gets  up 

He  sighs  at  the  close  of  day ; 
His  mates  would  offer  the  cheering  cup, 

But  he  turns  his  lip  away  : 
He  mourns  for  the  one  that  promised  well 
To  walk  his  land  like  another  Tell ! 


232  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  doleful  tidings  speed  swiftly  on 
Of  the  promising  spirits  forever  gone  ; 
And  the  words  fall  sadly  on  the  ear 
Of  every  listening  mountaineer. 

They  grieve  for  their  own,  their  free-born  child, 
Nestled  and  reared  mid  the  vast  and  wild ; 
For  there  trod  not  the  hills  a  dearer  one 
To  the  hearts  of  all  than  the  herdsman's  son. 

They  sigh  to  look  on  the  turrets  below, 
And  think  'tis  the  lordly  abode  of  wo ; 
They  sigh  to  miss  from  the  waterfall's  side, 
The  mountain  boy  and  the  Baron's  pride! 

And  many  a  tongue  shall  tell  the  tale, 
And  many  a  heart  shall  rue  the  day, 

When  the  hut  and  castle  lost  their  hopea 
tn  Tracy  de  Vore  and  Hubert  Grey ' 


,233 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE  OLD   ARM-CHAIR. 

I  LOVE  it,  I  love  it ;  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 

I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 

I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  and  embalmed  it  with  sighs ; 

'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart : 

Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 

Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ?  a  mother  sat  there, 

And  a  sacred  tiling  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear ; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 

To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 

With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my  guide ; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arrn-chair. 

I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day, 
When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray ; 
And  I  almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled 
And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

20* 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

Years  rolled  on,  but  the  last  one  sped  — 
My  idol  was  shattered,  my  earth-star  fled ; 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

'Tis  past !  'tis  past !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow : 
'Twas  there  she  nursed  me,  'twas  there  she  died ; 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek 
But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


SONG  OF  THE  RUSHLIGHT. 

OH,  scorn  me  not  as  a  fameless  thing, 

Nor  turn  with  contempt  from  the  song  I  sing. 

'Tis  true  I  am  not  suffered  to  be 

On  the  ringing  board  of  wassail  glee  ; 

My  pallid  gleam  must  never  fall 

In  the  gay  saloon  or  lordly  hall ; 

But  many  a  tale  does  the  rushlight  know 

Of  secret  sorrow  and  lonely  wo. 

I  am  found  in  the  closely-curtained  room, 
Where  a  stillness  reigns  that  breathes  of  the  tomb. 
Where  the  breaking  heart  and  heavy  eye 
Are  waiting  to  see  a  loved  one  die  - 


COOK'S  POEMS.  235 

Where  the  doting  child  with  noiseless  tread 
Steals  warily  to  the  mother's  bed, 
To  mark  if  the  faint  and  struggling  breath 
Is  fluttering  still  in  the  grasp  of  death. 

The  panting  has  ceased,  the  cheek  is  still, 
And  the  ear  of  the  child  bends  closer  still. 
It  rests  on  the  lips,  but  listens  in  vain, 
For  those  lips  have  done  with  life  and  pain ; 
I  am  wildly  snatched,  and  held  above 
The  precious  wreck  of  hope  and  love. 
The  work  is  sealed,  for  my  glimmering  ray 
Shows  a  glazing  eye  and  stifPning  clay. 

1  am  the  light  that  quivering  flits 

In  the  joyless  home  where  the  fond  wife  sits, 

Waiting  the  one  that  flies  his  hearth, 

For  the  gambler's  dice  and  drunkard's  mirth. 

Long  hath  she  kept  her  wearying  watch, 

Now  bitterly  weeping,  now  breathless  to  catch 

The  welcome  sound  of  a  footstep  near, 

Till  she  weeps  again  as  it  dies  on  her  ear. 

Her  restless  gaze,  as  the  night  wears  late, 
Is  anxiously  thrown  on  the  dial  plate  ; 
And  a  sob  responds  to  the  echoing  sound 
That  tells  the  hand  hath  gone  its  round : 
She  mournfully  trims  my  slender  wick, 
As  she  sees  me  fading  and  wasting  quick ; 
And  many  a  time  has  my  spark  expired, 
And  left  her  still  the  weeping  and  tired. 

I  am  the  light  that  dimly  shines 

Where  the  friendless  child  of  genius  pines  — 


236  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Where  the  godlike  mind  is  trampled  down 

By  the  callous  sneer  and  freezing  frown  — 

Where  Want  is  playing  a  demon  part, 

And  sends  its  iron  to  the  heart, — 

Where  the  soul  burns  on  in  the  bosom  thatmourni 

Like  the  incense  fire  in  funeral  urns. 

I  see  the  hectic  fingers  fling 

The  thoughts  intense  that  flashingly  spring, 

And  my  flickering  beam  illumes  the  page 

That  may  live  in  the  fame  of  a  future  age ; 

I  see  the  pale  brow  droop  and  mope, 

Till  the  breast  turns  sick  with  blasted  hope  — 

Till  the  harsh  cold  world  has  done  its  worst, 

And  the  goaded  spirit  has  groaned  and  burst. 

I  am  the  light  that's  doomed  to  share 

The  meanest  lot  that  man  can  bear ; 

I  see  the  scanty  portion  spread, 

Where  children  struggle  for  scraps  of  bread  — 

Where  squalid  forms  and  faces  seem 

Like  phantoms  in  a  hideous  dream  — 

Where  the  soul  may  look,  with  startled  awe, 

On  the  work  of  Poverty's  vulture  claw. 

Many  a  lesson  the  bosom  learns 

Of  hapless  grief  while  the  rushlight  burns ; 

Many  a  scene  unfolds  to  me 

That  the  heart  of  Mercy  would  bleed  to  see : 

Then  scorn  me  not  as  a  fameless  thing, 

Nor  turn  with  contempt  from  the  song  I  sing ; 

But  smile  as  ye  will,  or  scorn  as  ye  may, 

There's  naught  but  truth  to  be  found  in  my  lay. 


(237) 


THE  MOTHER  WHO  HAS  A  CHILD  AT  SEA. 

THERE'S  an  eye  that  looks  on  the  swelling  cloud, 
Folding  the  moon  in  a  funeral  shroud, 
That  watches  the  stars  dying  one  by  one, 
Till  the  whole  of  heaven's  calm  light  hath  gone  , 
There's  an  ear  that  lists  to  the  hissing  surge, 
As  the  mourner  turns  to  the  anthem  dirge : 
That  eye  !  that  ear !  oh,  whose  can  they  be, 
But  a  mother's  who  hath  a  child  at  sea  ? 

There's  a  cheek  that  is  getting  ashy  white, 
As  the  tokens  of  storm  come  on  with  night ; 
There's  a  form  that's  fixed  at  the  lattice  pane, 
To  mark  how  the  gloom  gathers  over  the  main, 
While  the  yeasty  billows  lash  the  shore 
With  loftier  sweep  and  hoarser  roar : 
That  cheek !  that  form !  oh,  whose  can  they  be, 
But  a  mother's  who  hath  a  child  at  sea  ? 

The  rushing  whistle  chills  her  blood, 
As  the  north  wind  hurries  to  scourge  the  flood ; 
And  the  icy  shiver  spreads  to  her  heart, 
As  the  first  red  lines  of  lightning  start. 
The  ocean  boils  !     All  mute  she  stands, 
With  parted  lips  and  tight-clasped  hands : 
Oh,  marvel  not  at  her  fear,  for  she 
Is  a  mother  who  hath  a  child  at  sea. 

She  conjures  up  the  fearful  scene 

Of  yawning  waves,  where  the  ship  between, 


38  COOK'S  POEMS. 

With  striking  keel  and  splintered  mast, 
Is  plunging  hard  and  foundering  fast. 
She  sees  her  boy,  with  lank  drenched  hair, 
Clinging  on  to  the  wreck  with  a  cry  of  despair 
Oh,  the  vision  is  madd'ning !     No  grief  can  be 
Like  a  mother's  who  hath  a  child  at  sea. 

She  presses  her  brow  —  she  sinks  and  kneels, 
Whilst  the  blast  howls  on  and  the  thunder  peals : 
She  breathes  not  a  word,  for  her  passionate  prayer 
Is  too  fervent  and  deep  for  the  lips  to  bear ; 
It  is  poured  in  the  long  convulsive  sigh, 
In  the  straining  glance  of  an  upturned  eye, 
And  a  holier  offering  cannot  be 
Than  the  mother's  prayer  for  her  child  at  sea. 

Oh !  I  love  the  winds  when  they  spurn  control, 

For  they  suit  my  own  bond-hating  soul ; 

I  like  to  hear  them  sweeping  past, 

Like  the  eagle's  pinions,  free  and  fast ; 

But  a  pang  will  rise,  with  sad  alloy, 

To  soften  my  spirit  and  sink  my  joy, 

When  I  think  how  dismal  their  voices  must  be 

To  a  mother  who  hath  a  child  at  sea ! 


OH!  DEAR  TO  MEMORY  ARE  THOSE  HOURS. 

OH  !  dear  to  memory  are  those  hours 
When  every  pathway  led  to  flowers  ; 
When  sticks  of  peppermint  possessed 
A  sceptre's  power"  o'er  the  breast, 
And  heaven  was  round  us  while  we  fed 
On  rich  ambrosial  gingerbread. 
I  bless  the  days  of  infancy, 
When,  stealing  from  a  mother's  eye, 
Elysian  happiness  was  found 
On  that  celestial  field,  the  ground  ; 
When  we  were  busied,  hands  and  hearts, 
In  those  important  things,  dirt  tarts. 
Don't  smile,  for  sapient,  full-grown  man, 
Oft  cogitates  some  mighty  plan ; 
And,  spell-bound  by  the  bubble  dream, 
He  labors  till  he  proves  the  scheme 
About  as  useful  and  as  wise 
As  manufacturing  dirt  pies  : 
There's  many  a  change  on  Folly's  bells 
Quite  equals  mud  and  oyster  shells. 

Then  shone  the  meteor  rays  of  youth, 
Eclipsing  quite  the  lamp  of  truth ; 
And  precious  those  bright  sunbeams  were 
That  dried  all  tears,  dispersed  all  care  ; 
That  shed  a  stream  of  golden  joy, 
Without  one  atom  of  alloy. 
Oh  !  ne'er  in  rtiercy  strive  to  chase 
Such  dazzling  phantoms  from  their  place ! 


240  COOKS  POEM-S. 

However  trifling,  mean,  or  wild, 
The  deeds  may  seem  of  youth  or  child, 
While  they  still  leave  untarnished  soul, 
The  iron  rod  of  stern  control 
Should  be  but  gentle  in  its  sway, 
Nor  rend  the  magic  veil  away. 

I  doubt  if  it  be  kind  or  wise 

To  quench  the  light  i»  opening  eyes, 

By  preaching  fallacy  and  wo 

As  all  that  we  can  meet  below. 

I  ne'er  respect  the  ready  tongue 

That  augurs  sorrow  to  the  young  ; 

That  aptly  plays  a  sybil's  part, 

To  promise  nightshade  to  the  heart. 

Let  them  exult !  their  laugh  and  song 

Are  rarely  known  to  last  too  long. 

Why  should  we  strive  with  cynic  frown 

To  knock  their  fairy  castles  down  ? 

We  know  that  much  of  pain  and  strife 

Must  be  the  common  lot  of  life  : 

We  know  the  world  is  dark  and  rough, 

But  time  betrays  that  soon  enough ! 


(241) 

SPRING. 

WELCOME,  all  hail  to  thee ! 

Welcome,  young  Spring! 
Thy  sun-ray  is  bright 

On  the  butterfly's  wing. 
Beauty  shines  forth 

In  the  blossom-robed  trees ; 
Perfume  floats  by 

On  the  soft  southern  breeze. 

Music,  sweet  music, 

Sounds  over  the  earth ; 
One  glad  choral  song 

Greets  the  primrose's  birth ; 
The  lark  soars  above, 

With  its  shrill  matin  strain ; 
The  shepherd  boy  tunes 

His  reed  pipe  on  the  plain. 

Music,  sweet  music, 

Cheers  meadow  and  lea ;  — 
In  the  song  of  the  blackbird, 

The  hum  of  the  bee  ; 
The  loud  happy  laughter 

Of  children  at  play 
Proclaim  how  they  worship 

Spring's  beautiful  day, 


The  eye  of  the  hale  one, 

With  joy  in  its  gleam, 
21 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

Looks  up  in  the  noontide, 
And  steals  from  the  beam ; 

But  the  cheek  of  the  pale  one 
Is  marked  with  despair, 

To  feel  itself  fading, 
When  all  is  so  fair. 

The  hedges,  luxuriant 

With  flowers  and  balm, 
Are  purple  with  violets, 

And  shaded  with  palm ; 
The  zephyr-kissed  grass 

Is  beginning  to  wave ; 
Fresh  verdure  is  decking 

The  garden  and  grave. 

Welcome  !  all  hail  to  thee, 

Heart-stirring  May ! 
Thou  hast  won  from  my  wild  harp 

A  rapturous  lay. 
And  the  last  dying  murmur 

That  sleeps  on  the  string 
Is  welcome.    All  hail  to  thee 

Welcome,  young  Spring ! 


(243) 


SAILING  SONG. 

WE  have  left  the  still  earth  for  the  billows  and  breeze 
'Neath  the  brightest  of  moons  on  the  bluest  of  seas ; 
We  have  music  —  hark !    hark  !    there's  a  tone  o'er  the 

deep 

Like  the  murmuring  breath  of  a  lion  asleep. 
There's  enough  of  bold  dash  in  the  rich  foam  that  laves 
Just  to  whisper  the  slumber- wrapt  might  of  the  waves  ; 
But  yet  there's  a  sweetness  about  the  full  swell 
Like  the  sound  of  the  mermaid  —  the  chords  of  the 

shell. 

We  have  jewels.  Oh !  what  is  your  casket  of  gems 
To  the  pearls  hanging  thick  on  the  red  coral  stems  ? 
Are  there  homes  of  more  light  than  the  one  where  we 

are, 

For  it  nestles  the  dolphin  and  mirrors  the  star  ? 
We  may  creep,  we  may  scud,  we  may  rest,  we  mayfly ; 
There's  no  check  to  our  speed,  there's  no  dust  for  our 

eye; 

Oh !  well  may  our  spirits  grow  wild  as  the  breeze, 
'Neath  the  brightest  of  moons  on  the  bluest  of  fiona ' 


244) 


THE  GIPSY'S  TENT. 

OUR  fire  on  the  turf,  and  our  tent  'neath  a  tree  - 
Carousing  by  moonlight,  how  merry  are  we  ! 
Let  the  lord  boast  his  castle,  the  baron  his  hall, 
But  the  house  of  the  gipsy  is  widest  of  all. 
We  may  shout  o'er  our  cups,  and  laugh  loud  as  we  will, 
Till  echo  rings  back  from  wood,  welkin,  and  hill ; 
No  joys  seem  to  us  like  the  joys  that  are  lent 
To  the  wanderer's  life  and  the  gipsy's  tent 

Some  crime  and  much  folly  may  fall  to  our  lot ; 

We  have  sins,  but  pray  where  is  the  one  who  has  not  ? 

We  are  rogues,  arrant  rogues  :  —  yet  remember !   'tis 

rare 

We  take  but  from  those  who  can  very  well  spare. 
You  may  tell  us  of  deeds  justly  branded  with  shame, 
But  if  great  ones  heard  truth  you  could  tell  them  the 

same: 

And  there's  many  a  king  would  have  less  to  repent, 
If  his  throne  were  as  pure  as  the  gipsy's  tent 

Pant  ye  for  beauty  ?     Oh,  where  would  ye  seek 
Such  bloom  as  is  found  on  the  tawny  one's  cheek  ? 
Our  limbs,  that  go  bounding  in  freedom  and  health, 
Are  worth  all  your  pale  faces  and  coffers  of  wealth. 
There  are  none  to  control  us  ;  we  rest  or  we  roam ; 
Our  will  is  our  law,  and  the  world  is  our  home : 
E'en  Jove  would  repine  at  his  lot  if  he  spent 
A  night  of  wild  glee  in  the  gipsy's  tent. 


V245) 


THE  FREE. 

THE  wild  streams  leap  with  headlong  sweep 
In  their  curbless  course  o'er  the  mountain  steep 
All  fresh  and  strong  they  foam  along, 
Waking  the  rocks  with  their  cataract  song. 
My  eye  bears  a  glance  like  the  beam  on  a  lance, 
While  I  watch  the  waters  dash  and  dance ; 
I  burn  with  glee,  for  I  love  to  see 
The  path  of  any  thing  that's  free. 


The  skylark  springs  with  dew  on  his  wings, 

And  up  in  the  arch  of  heaven  he  sings 

Trill-la,  trill-la  —  oh,  sweeter  far 

Than  the  notes  that  come  through  a  golden  bar. 

The  joyous  bay  of  a  hound  at  play, 

The  caw  of  the  rook  on  its  homeward  way  — 

Oh  !  these  shall  be  the  music  for  me, 

For  I  love  the  voices  of  the  free. 


The  deer  starts  by  with  his  antlers  high, 
Proudly  tossing  his  head  to  the  sky  ; 
The  barb  runs  the  plain  unbroke  by  the  rein, 
With  streaming  nostrils  and  flying  mane ; 
The  clouds  are  stirred  by  the  eaglet  bird, 
As  the  flap  of  its  swooping  pinion  is  heard. 
Oh !  these  shall  be  the  creatures  for  me, 
For  my  soul  was  formed  to  love  the  free. 

21* 


246  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  mariner  brave,  in  his  bark  on  the  wave, 
May  laugh  at  the  walls  round  a  kingly  slave; 
And  the  one  whose  lot  is  the  desert  spot 
Has  no  dread  of  an  envious  foe  in  his  cot. 
The  thrall  and  state  at  the  palace  gate 
Are  what  my  spirit  has  learnt  to  hate  : 
Oh !  the  hills  shall  be  a  home  for  me, 
For  Pd  leave  a  throne  for  the  hut  of  the  free. 


WINTER. 

WE  know  'tis  good  that  old  Winter  should  come, 

Roving  a  while  from  his  Lapland  home  ; 

'Tis  fitting  that  we  should  hear  the  sound 

Of  his  reindeer  sledge  on  the  slippery  ground : 

For  his  wide  and  glittering  cloak  of  snow 
Protects  the  seeds  of  life  below  ; 
Beneath  his  mantle  are  nurtured  and  born 
The  roots  of  the  flowers,  the  germs  of  the  corn. 

The  whistling  tone  of  his  pure  strong  breath 

Rides  purging  the  vapors  of  pestilent  death. 

I  love  him,  I  say,  and  avow  it  again, 

For  God's  wisdom  and  might  show  well  in  his  train. 

But  the  naked  —  the  poor  !  I  know  they  quail 
With  crouching  limbs  from  the  biting  gale  ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  247 

They  pine  and  starve  by  the  fireless  hearth, 
And  weep  as  they  gaze  on  the  frost-bound  earth. 

Stand  nobly  forth,  ye  rich  of  the  land, 
With  kindly  heart  and  bounteous  hand 
Remember  'tis  now  their  season  of  need, 
And  a  prayer  for  help  is  a  call  ye  must  heed. 

A  few  of  thy  blessings,  a  tithe  of  thy  gold, 
Will  save  the  young,  and  cherish  the  old. 
'Tis  a  glorious  task  to  work  such  good  — 
Do  it,  ye  great  ones  !     Ye  can,  and  ye  should. 

He  is  not  worthy  to  l^pld  from  heaven 
The  trust  reposed,  the  talents  given, 
Who  will  not  add  to  the  portion  that's  scant, 
In  the  pinching  hours  of  cold  and  want. 

Oh !  listen  in  mercy,  ye  sons  of  wealth, 
Basking  in  comfort  and  glowing  with  health ; 
Give  whate'er  ye  can  spare,  and  be  ye  sure 
He  serveth  his  Maker  who  aideth  the  poor 


(248) 


SNOW. 

BRAVE  Winter  and  I  shall  ever  agree, 
Though  a  stern  and  frowning  gaffer  is  he. 
I  like  to  hear  him,  with  hail  and  rain. 
Come  tapping  against  the  window  pane ; 
I  joy  to  see  him  come  marching  forth 
Begirt  with  the  icicle  gems  of  the  north ; 
But  I  like  him  best  when  he  comes  bedight 
In  his  velvet  robes  of  stainless  white. 

A  cheer  for  the  snow  —  th«  drifting  snow ! 
Smoother  and  purer  than  beauty's  brow  ! 
The  creature  of  thought  scarce  likes  to  tread 
On  the  delicate  carpet  so  richly  spread. 
With  feathery  wreaths  the  forest  is  bound, 
And  the  hills  are  with  glittering  diadems  crowned 
'Tis  the  fairest  scene  we  can  have  below. 
Sing,  welcome,  then,  to  the  drifting  snow  ! 

The  urchins  gaze  with  eloquent  eye 
To  see  the  flakes  go  dancing  by. 
In  the  thick  of  the  storm  how  happy  are  they 
To  welcome  the  first  deep  snowy  day ! 
Shouting  and  pelting  —  what  bliss  to  fall 
Half-smothered  beneath  the  well-aimed  ball ! 
Men  of  four-score,  did  ye  ever  know 
Such  sport  as  ye  had  in  the  drifting  snow  ? 

I'm  true  to  my  theme,  for  I  loved  it  well. 
When  tbfc  gossiping  nurse  would  sit  and  tell 


! 
COOK'S  POEMS.  249 


The  tale  of  the  geese  —  though  hardly  believed  — 
I  doubted  and  questioned  the  words  that  deceived. 
I  rejoice  in  it  still,  and  love  to  see 
The  ermine  mantle  on  tower  and  tree. 
Tis  the  fairest  scene  we  can  have  below. 
Hurrah !  then,  hurrah !  for  the  drifting  snow ! 


THE  GIPSY  CHILD. 

HE  sprung  to  life  in  a  crazy  tent, 
Where  the  cold  wind  whistled  through  many  a  rent ; 
Rude  was  the  voice,  and  rough  were  the  hands 
That  soothed  his  wailings  and  swathed  his  bands. 
No  tissue  of  gold,  no  lawn  was  there, 
No  snowy  robe  for  the  new-born  heir ; 
But  the  mother  wept,  and  the  father  smiled 
With  heartfelt  joy  o'er  their  gipsy  child. 


He  grows  like  the  young  oak,  healthy  and  broad, 

With  no  home  but  the  forest,  no  bed  but  the  sward 

Half  naked,  he  wades  in  the  limpid  stream, 

Or  dances  about  in  the  scorching  beam. 

The  dazzling  glare  of  the  banquet  sheen 

Hath  never  fallen  on  him,  I  ween ; 

But  fragments  are  spread  and  the  wood-fire  piled, 

And  sweet  is  the  meal  of  the  gipsy  child. 


250  COOK'S  POEMS. 

He  wanders  at  large,  while  maidens  admire 
His  raven  hair  and  his  eyes  of  fire ; 
They  mark  his  cheek's  rich  tawny  hue, 
With  the  deep  carnation  flushing  through : 
He  laughs  aloud,  and  they  covet  his  teeth, 
All  pure  and  white  as  their  own  pearl  wreath ; 
And  the  courtly  dame  and  damsel  mild 
Will  turn  to  gaze  on  the  gipsy  child. 

Up  with  the  sun,  he  is  roving  along, 
Whistling  to  mimic  the  blackbird's  song ; 
He  wanders  at  nightfall  to  startle  the  owl, 
And  is  baying  again  to  the  watch-dog's  howl. 
His  limbs  are  unshackled,  his  spirit  is  bold, 
He  is  free  from  the  evils  of  fashion  and  gold 
His  dower  is  scant  and  his  life  is  wild. 
But  kings  might  envy  the  gipsy  child. 


THE  QUIET  EYE. 

THE  orb  I  like  is  not  the  one 

That  dazzles  with  its  lightning  gleam, 
That  dares  to  look  upon  the  sun 

As  though  it  challenged  brighter  beam. 
That  orb  may  sparkle,  flash,  and  roll ; 

Its  fire  may  blaze,  its  shaft  may  fly  ; 
But  not  for  me :  I  prize  the  soul 

That  slumbers  in  a  quiet  eye 


COOK'S  POEMS.  251 

There's  something  in  its  placid  shade 

That  tells  of  calm  unworldly  thought; 
Hope  may  be  crowned,  or  joy  delayed  — 

No  dimness  steals,  no  ray  is  caught : 
Its  pensive  language  seems  to  say, 

"  I  know  that  I  must  close  and  die ; 
And  death  itself,  come  when  it  may, 

Can  hardly  change  the  quiet  eye. 

There's  meaning  in  its  steady  glance, 

Of  gentle  blame  or  praising  love, 
That  makes  me  tremble  to  advance 

A  word  that  meaning  might  reprove. 
The  haughty  threat,  the  fiery  look, 

My  spirit  proudly  can  defy  ; 
But  never  yet  could  meet  and  brook 

The  upbraiding  of  a  quiet  eye. 

There's  firmness  in  its  even  light, 

That  augurs  of  a  breast  sincere : 
And,  oh !  take  watch  how  ye  excite 

That  firmness  till  it  yield  a  tear. 
Some  bosoms  give  an  easy  sigh, 

Some  drops  of  grief  will  freely  start ; 
But  that  which  sears  the  quiet  eye 

Hath  its  deep  fountain  in  the  heart 


(252) 


OLD    DOBBIN. 

HERE'S  a  song  for  old  Dobbin,  whose  temper  and  worth 
Are  too  rare  to  be  spurned  on  the  score  of  his  birth. 
He's  a  creature  of  trust,  and  what  more  should  we  heed  ? 
Tis  deeds  and  not  blood  make  the  man  and  the  steed. 

He  was  bred  in  the  forest,  and  turned  on  the  plain, 
Where  the  thistle-burs  clung  to  his  fetlocks  and  mane. 
All  ugly  and  rough,  not  a  soul  could  espy 
The  spark  of  good-humor  that  dwelt  in  his  eye. 

The  summer  had  waned,  and  the  autumn  months  rolled 

Into  those  of  stern  winter,  all  dreary  and  cold ; 

But  the  north  wind  might  whistle,  the  snow-flake  might 

dance, 
The  colt  of  the  common  was  left  to  his  chance. 

Half  starved  and  half  frozen,  the  hail-storm  would  pelt, 
Till  his  shivering  limbs  told  the  pangs  that  he  felt ; 
But  we  pitied  the  brute,  and,  though  laughed  at  by  all, 
We  filled  him  a  manger  and  gave  him  a  stall. 

He  was  fond  as  a  spaniel,  and  soon  he  became 

The  pride  of  the  herd-boy,  the  pet  of  the  dame. 

You  may  judge  of  his  fame,   when  his  price  was  a 

crown ; 
But  we  christened  him  Dobbin,  and  called  him  our  own. 

He  grew  out  of  colthood,  and,  lo  !  what  a  change  ! 
The  knowing  ones  said  it  was  mortally  strange  ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  253 

For  the  foal  of  the  forest,  the  colt  of  the  waste, 
Attracted  the  notice  of  jockeys  of  taste. 

The  line  of  his  symmetry  was  not  exact ; 
But  his  paces  were  clever,  his  mould  was  compact : 
And  his  shaggy  thick  coat  now  appeared  with  a  gloss, 
Shining  out  like  the  gold  that's  been  purged  of  its 
dross. 

We  broke  him  for  service,  and  tamely  he  wore 
Girth  and  rein,  seeming  proud  of  the  thraldom  he  bore ; 
Every  farm  has  a  steed  for  all  work  and  all  hours, 
And  Dobbin,  the  sturdy  bay  pony,  was  ours. 

He  carried  the  master  to  barter  his  grain, 

And  ever  returned  with  him  safely  again : 

There  was  merit  in  that,  for  deny  it  who  may, 

When  the  master  could  not,  Dobbin  could  find  his  way. 

The  dairy-maid  ventured  her  eggs  on  his  back : 
'Twas  him,  and  him  only,  she'd  trust  with  the  pack. 
The  team  horses  jolted,  the  roadster  played  pranks, 
So  Dobbin  alone  had  her  faith  and  her  thanks. 

We  fun-loving  urchins  would  group  by  his  side ; 
We  might  fearlessly  mount  him,  and  daringly  ride ; 
We  might  creep  through  his  legs,  we  might  plait  his 

long  tail ; 
But  his  temper  and  patience  were  ne'er  known  to  fail. 

We  would  brush  his  bright  hide  till  'twas  free  from  a 

speck  ; 
We  kissed  his  brown  muzzle,  and  hugged  his  thick 

neck; 


254  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Oh !  we  prized  him  like  life,  and  a  heart-breaking  sob 
Ever  burst  when  they  threatened  to  sell  our  dear  Dob. 


He  stood  to  the  collar,  and  tugged  up  the  hill, 
With  the  pigs  to  the  market,  the  grist  to  the  mill ; 
With  saddle  or  halter,  in  shaft  or  in  trace, 
He  was  staunch  to  his  work,  and  content  with  his  place. 

When  the  hot  sun  was  crowning  the  toil  of  the  year, 
He  was  sent  to  the  reapers  with  ale  and  good  cheer ; 
And  none  in  the  corn-field  more  welcome  was  seen 
Than  Dob  arid  his  well-laden  panniers,  I  ween. 

Oh !  those  days  of  pure  bliss  shall  I  ever  forget, 
When  we  decked  out  his  head  with  the  azure  rosette ; 
All  frantic  with  joy  to  be  off  to  the  fair, 
With  Dobbin,  good  Dobbin,  to  carry  us  there  ? 

He  was  dear  to  us  all,  ay,  for  many  long  years ; 
But,  mercy  !  hoAv's  this  ?  my  eye's  filling  with  tears. 
Oh !  how  cruelly  sweet  are  the  echoes  that  start 
When  Memory  plays  an  old  tune  on  the  heart ! 

There  are  drops  on  my  cheek,  there's  a  throb  in  my 

breast, 

But  my  song  shall  not  cease,  nor  my  pen  take  its  rest, 
Till  I  tell  that  old  Dobbin  still  lives  to  be  seen, 
With  his|oats  in  the  stable,  his  tares  on  the  green. 

His  best  years  have  gone  by,  and  the  master  who  gave 
The  stern  yoke  to  his  youth  has  enfranchised  the  slave. 
So  browse  on,  my  old  Dobbin,  nor  dream  of  the  knife, 
For  the  wealth  of  a  king  should  not  purchase  thy  life. 


(255} 


THE  OLD   FARM-GATE. 

WHERE,  where  is  the  gate  that  once  served  to  divide 

The  elm-shaded  lane  from  the  dusty  road-side  ? 

I  like  not  this  barrier  gaily  bedight, 

With  its  glittering  latch  and  its  trellis  of  white. 

It  is  seemly,  I  own— yet,  oh  !  dearer  by  far 

Was  the  red-rusted  hinge  and  the  weather-warped  bar. 

Here  are  fashion  and  form  of  a  modernized  date, 

But  I'd  rather  have  looked  on  the  old  farm-gate. 

'Twas  here  where  the  urchins  would  gather  to  play 
In  the  shadows  of  twilight  or  sunny  mid-day; 
For  the  stream  running  nigh,  and  the  hillocks  of  sand, 
Were  temptations  no  dirt-loving  rogue  could  withstand. 
But  to  swing  on  the  gate-rails,  to  clamber  and  ride, 
Was  the  utmost  of  pleasure,  of  glory,  and  pride ; 
And  the  car  of  the  victor  or  carriage  of  state 
Never  carried  such  hearts  as  the  old  farm-gate. 

Twas  here  where  the  miller's  son  paced  to  and  fro, 
When  the  moon  was  above  and  the  glow-worms  below; 
Now  pensively  leaning,  now  twirling  his  stick, 
While  the  moments  grew  long  and  his  heart-throbs 

grew  quick. 

Why,  why  did  he  linger  so  restlessly  there, 
With   church-going  vestment  and    sprucely   combed 

hair? 

He  loved,  oh !  he  loved,  and  had  promised  to  wait 
For  the  one  he  adored,  at  the  old  farm-gate. 


256  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Twas  here  where  the  gray-headed  gossips  would  meet ; 
And  the  falling  of  markets,  or  goodness  of  wheat  — 
This  field  lying  farrow  —  that  heifer  just  bought  — 
Were  favorite  themes  for  discussion  and  thought. 
The  merits  and  faults  of  a  neighbor  just  dead  — 
The  hopes  of  a  couple  about  to  be  wed  — 
The  Parliament  doings  —  the  bill  and  debate  — 
Were  all  canvassed  and  weighed  at  the  old  farm-gate. 

'Twas  over  that  gate  I  taught  Pincher  to  bound 
With  the  strength  of  a  steed  and  the  grace  of  a  hound. 
The  beagle  might  hunt,  and  the  spaniel  might  swim, 
But  none  could  leap  over  that  postern  like  him. 
Wnen  Dobbin  was  saddled  for  mirth-making  trip, 
And  the  quickly-pulled  willow-branch  served  for  a  whip, 
Spite  of  lugging  and  tugging  he'd  stand  for  his  freight, 
While  I  climbed  on  his  back  from  the  old  farm-gate. 

'Tis  well  to  pass  portals  where  pleasure  and  fame 
May  come  winging  our  moments  and  gilding  our  name ; 
But  give  me  the  joy  and  the  freshness  of  mind, 
When,  away  on  some  sport  —  the  old  gate  slammed 

behind  — 

I've  listened  to  music,  but  none  that  could  speak 
In  such  tones  to  my  heart  as  the  teeth-setting  creak 
That  broke  on  my  ear  when  the  night  had  worn  late, 
And  the  dear  ones  came  home  through  the  old  farm- 
gate. 

Oh !  fair  is  the  barrier  taking  its  place, 
But  it  darkens  a  picture  my  soul  longed  to  trace. 
I  sigh  to  behold  the  rough  staple  and  hasp, 
And  the  rails  that  my  growing  hand  scarcely  could 
clasp. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  257 

Oh  !  how  strangely  the  warm  spirit  grudges  to  part 
With  the  commonest  relic  once  linked  to  the  heart ! 
And  the  brightest  of  fortune  —  the  kindliest  fate  — 
Would  not  banish  my  love  for  the  old  farm-gate. 


BUTTERCUPS   AND  DAISIES. 

I  NEVER  see  a  young  hand  hold 
The  starry  bunch  of  white  and  gold, 
But  something  warm  and  fresh  will  start 
About  the  region  of  my  heart. 
My  smile  expires  into  a  sigh ; 
I  feel  a  struggling  in  the  eye, 
'Twixt  humid  drop  and  sparkling  ray, 
Till  rolling  tears  have  won  their  way : 
For  soul  and  brain  will  travel  back 

Through  memory's  checkered  mazes, 
To  days  when  I  but  trod  life's  track 

For  buttercups  and  daisies. 

Tell  me,  ye  men  of  wisdom  rare, 
Of  sober  speech  and  silver  hair, 
Who  carry  counsel,  wise  and  sage, 
With  all  the  gravity  of  age  ; 
Oh !  say,  do  ye  not  like  to  hear 
The  accents  ringing  in  your  ear, 
When  sportive  urchins  laugh  and  shout, 
Tossing  those  precious  flowers  about 


258  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Springing  with  bold  and  gleesome  bound, 

Proclaiming  joy  that  crazes, 
And  chorusing  the  magic  sound 

Of  buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

Are  there,  I  ask,  beneath  the  sky 
Blossoms  that  knit  so  strong  a  tie 
With  childhood's  love  ?    Can  any  please 
Or  light  the  infant  eye  like  these  ? 
No,  no ;  there's  not  a  bud  on  earth, 
Of  richest  tint  or  warmest  birth, 
Can  ever  fling  such  zeal  and  zest 
Into  the  tiny  hand  and  breast 
Who  does  not  recollect  the  hours 

When  burning  words  and  praises 
Were  lavished  on  those  shining  flowers, 

Buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

There  seems  a  bright  and  fairy  spell 
About  their  very  names  to  dwell ; 
And  though  old  Time  has  marked  my  brow 
With  care  and  thought,  I  love  them  now. 
Smile,  if  ye  will,  but  some  heart-strings 
Are  closest  linked  to  simplest  things  ; 
And  these  wild  flowers  will  hold  mine  fast, 
Till  love,  and  life,  and  all  be  past ; 
And  then  the  only  wish  I  have 

Is  that  the  one  who  raises 
The  turf-sod  o'er  me  plant  my  grave 

With  buttercups  and  daisies. 


259 


THE  IDIOT  BORN. 

"OuT,  thou  silly  rnoon-struck  elf ; 
Back,  poor  fool,  and  hide  thyself! w 
This  is  what  the  wise  ones  say, 
Should  the  idiot  cross  their  way , 
But  if  we  would  closely  mark, 
We  should  see  him  not  all  dark ; 
We  should  find  we  must  not  scorn 
The  teaching  of  the  idiot-born. 

He  will  screen  the  newt  and  frog ; 
He  will  cheer  the  famished  dog ; 
He  will  seek  to  share  his  bread 
With  the  orphan,  parish  fed ; 
He  will  offer  up  his  seat 
To  the  stranger's  wearied  feet. 
Selfish  tyrants,  do  not  scorn 
The  teaching  of  the  idiot-born. 

Use  him  fairly,  he  will  prove 
How  the  simple  breast  can  love  ; 
He  will  spring  with  infant  glee    • 
To  the  form  he  likes  to  see. 
Gentle  speech  or  kindness  done 
Truly  binds  the  witless  one. 
Heartless  traitors,  do  not  scorn 
The  teaching  of  the  idiot-born. 

He  will  point  with  vacant  stare 

At  the  robes  proud  churchmen  wear 


260  COOK'S  POEMS. 

But  he'll  pluck  the  rose,  and  tell 
God  hath  painted  it  right  Avell. 
He  will  kneel  before  his  food. 
Softly  saying,  "  God  is  good." 
Haughty  prelates,  do  not  scorn 
The  teaching  of  the  idiot-born. 

Art  thou  great  as  man  can  be  ?  — 
The  same  hand  moulded  him  and  thee. 
Hast  thou  talent  ? —  Taunt  and  jeer 
Must  not  fall  upon  his  ear. 
Spurn  him  not ;  the  blemished  part 
Had  better  be  the  head  than  heart. 
Thou  wilt  be  the  fool  to  scorn 
The  teaching  of  the  idiot-born. 


j 
THE  POET. 

LOOK  on  the  sky,  all  broad  and  fair ; 

Sons  of  the  earth,  what  see  ye  there  ? 

The  rolling  clouds  to  feast  thine  eye 

With  golden  burnish  and  Tyrian  dye  ; 

The  rainbow's  arch,  the  sun  of  noon, 

The  stars  of  eve,  the  midnight  moon : 

These,  these  to  the  coldest  gaze  are  bright 

They  are  marked  by  all  for  their  glory  and  light ; 

But,  tbeir  color  and  rays  shed  a  richer  beam 

As  they,  shine  to  illumine  the  poet's  dream. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  261 

Children  of  pleasure,  how  ye  dote 
On  the  dulcet  harp  and  tuneful  note  — 
Holding  your  breath  to  drink  the  strain, 
Till  throbbing  joy  dissolves  in  pain. 
There's  not  a  spell  aught  else  can  fling 
Like  the  warbling  voice  and  the  silver  string ; 
But  a  music  to  other  ears  unknown, 
Of  deeper  thrill  and  sweeter  tone, 
Comes  in  the  wild  and  gurgling  stream 
To  the  poet  rapt  in  his  blissful  dream. 


The  earth  may  have  its  buried  stores 

Of  lustrous  jewels  and  coveted  ores; 

Ye  may  gather  hence  the  marble  stone 

To  house  a  monarch  or  wall  a  throne  ; 

Its  gold  may  fill  the  grasping  hand, 

Its  gems  may  flash  in  the  sceptre  wand  ; 

Bnt  purer  treasures  and  dearer  things 

Than  the  coins  of  misers  or  trappings  of  kings  — • 

Gifts  and  hoards  of  a  choicer  kind 

Are  garnered  up  in  the  poet's  mind. 


The  mother  so  loves  that  the  world  holds  none 
To  match  with  her  own  fair  lisping  one ; 
The  wedded  youth  will  nurture  his  bride 
With  all  the  fervor  of  passion  and  pride ; 
Hands  will  press  and  beings  blend 
Till  the  kindliest  ties  knit  friend  to  friend. 
Oh !  the  hearts  of  the  many  can  truly  burn, 
They  can  fondly  cherish  and  closely  yearn ; 
But  the  flame  of  love  is  more  vivid  and  strong 
That  kindles  within  a  child  of  sono-. 


262  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Life  hath  much  of  grief  and  pain 

To  sicken  the  breast  and  tire  the  bra.ii ; 

All  brows  are  shaded  by  sorrow's  cloud, 

All  eyes  are  dimmed,  all  spirits  bowed ; 

Sighs  will  break  from  the  care-worn  breast, 

Till  death  is  asked  as  a  pillow  of  rest ; 

But  the  gifted  one,  oh !  who  can  tell 

How  his  pulses  beat  and  his  heart's  strings  swell  ? 

His  secret  pangs,  his  throbbing  wo 

None  but  himself  and  his  God  can  know. 

Crowds  may  join  in  the  festive  crew, 

Their  hours  may  be  glad  and  their  pleasures  true 

They  may  gaily  carouse  and  fondly  believe 

There's  no  greater  bliss  for  the  soul  to  receive. 

But  ask  the  poet  if  he  will  give 

His  exquisite  moments  like  them  to  live ; 

And  the  scornful  smile  on  his  lips  will  play, 

His  eye  will  flash  with  exulting  ray  — 

For  he  knows  and  feels  that  to  him  is  given 

The  joys  that  yield  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 

Oh !  there's  something  holy  about  each  spot 
Where  the  weary  sleep  and  strife  comes  not ; 
And  the  good  and  great  ones  passed  away 
Have  worshippers  still  o'er  their  soulless  clay  ; 
But  the  dust  of  the  bard  is  most  hallowed  and  dear ; 
'Tis  moistened  and  blest  by  the  warmest  tear. 
The  prayers  of  the  worthiest  breathe  his  name, 
Mourning  his  loss  and  guarding  his  fame ; 
And  the  truest  homage  the  dead  can  have 
Is  rendered  up  at  the  poet's  grave 


(2G3) 


THE  SONG  OF  MARION. 

NOT  yet,  not  yet.    I  thought  I  saw 

The  foldings  of  his  plaid. 
Alas !  'twas  but  the  mountain  pine, 

That  cast  a  fitful  shade. 
The  moon  is  o'er  the  highest  crag, 

It  gilds  each  tower  and  tree, 
But  Wallace  comes  not  hack  to  bless 

The  hearts  in  Ellerslie. 

Not  yet,  not  yet.     Is  that  his  plume 

I  see  beneath  the  hill  ? 
Ah,  no  !  'tis  but  the  waving  fern : 

The  heath  is  lonely  still. 
Dear  Wallace,  day-star  of  my  soul, 

Thy  Marion  weeps  for  thee  ; 
She  fears  lest  evil  should  betide 

The  guard  of  Ellerslie. 

Not  yet,  not  yet.     I  heard  a  sound, 

A  distant  crashing  din  ; 
'Tis  but  the  night-breeze  bearing  on 

The  roar  of  Corie  Lin. 
The  gray-haired  harper  cannot  rest, 

He  keeps  his  watch  with  me  ; 
He  kneels  —  he  prays  that  God  may  shield 

The  laird  of  Ellerslie. 

Not  yet,  not  yet.     My  heart  will  break : 
Where  can  the  brave  one  stay  ? 


264  COOK'S  POEMS. 

I  know  'tis  not  his  own  free  will 

That  keeps  him  thus  away. 
The  lion  may  forsake  his  lair, 

The  dove  its  nest  may  flee, 
But  Wallace  loves  too  well,  to  leave 

His  bride  and  Ellerslie. 

Not  yet,  not  yet.     The  moon  goes  down, 

And  Wallace  is  not  here ; 
And  still  his  sleuth-hound  howls,  and  still 

I  shed  the  burning  tear. 
Oh,  come,  my  Wallace,  quickly  come, 

As  ever,  safe  and  free : 
Come,  or  thy  Marion  soon  will  find 

A  grave  in  Ellerslie  ! 


THE  SEXTON. 

"  MINE  is  the  fame  most  blazoned  of  all 

Mine  is  the  goodliest  trade  ; 
Never  was  banner  so  wide  as  the  pall, 

Nor  sceptre  so  feared  as  the  spade." 

This  is  the  lay  of  the  sexton  gray  — 

King  of  the  churchyard  he  — 
While  the  mournful  knell  of  the  tolling  bell 

Chimes  in  with  his  burden  of  glee. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  265 

He  dons  a  doublet  of  sober  brown, 

And  a  hat  of  slouching  felt ; 
The  mattock  is  over  his  shoulder  thrown, 

The  heavy  keys  clank  at  his  belt 

The  dark  damp  vault  now  echoes  his  tread, 

While  his  song  rings  merrily  out ; 
With  a  cobweb  canopy  over  his  head, 

And  coffins  falling  about. 

His  foot  may  crush  the  full-fed  worms, 

His  hand  may  grasp  a  shroud, 
His  gaze  may  rest  on  skeleton  forms, 

Yet  his  tones  are  light  and  loud. 

He 'digs  the  grave,  and  his  chant  will  break 

As  he  gains  a  fathom  deep  — 
"  Whoever  lies  in  the  bed  I  make, 

I  warrant  will  soundly  sleep." 

He  piles  the  sod,  he  raises  the  stone, 

He  clips  the  cypress  tree ; 
But  whate'er  his  task,  'tis  plied  alone  — 

No  fellowship  holds  he. 

For  the  sexton  gray  is  a  scaring  loon  — 

His  name  is  linked  with  death. 
The  children  at  play,  should  he  cross  their  way, 

Will  pause  with  fluttering  breath. 

They  herd  together,  a  frightened  host, 

And  whisper  with  lips  all  white,  — 
"  See,  see,  'tis  he,  that  sends  the  ghost 

To  walk  the  world  at  night" 

23 


268  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  old  men  mark  him,  with  fear  in  their  eye, 

At  his  labor  mid  skulls  and  dust ; 
They  hear  him  chant,  "  The  young  may  die, 

But  we  know  the  aged  must." 

The  rich  will  frown,  as  his  ditty  goes  on  — 

"  Though  broad  your  lands  may  be, 
Six  narrow  feet  to  the  beggar  I  mete, 

And  the  same  shall  serve  for  ye." 

The  ear  of  the  strong  will  turn  from  his  song, 

And  Beauty's  cheek  will  pale  ; 
"  Out,  out,"  cry  they,  "  what  creature  would  stay, 

To  list  thy  croaking  tale  ! " 

Oh  !  the  sexton  gray  is  a  mortal  of  dread  ;• 

None  like  to  see  him  come  near ; 
The  orphan  thinks  on  a  father  dead, 

The  widow  wipes  a  tear. 

All  shudder  to  hear  his  bright  axe  chink, 

Upturning  the  hollow  bone  ; 
No  mate  will  share  his  toil  or  his  fare, 

He  works,  he  carouses  alone, 

By  night,  or  by  day,  this,  this  is  his  lay : 

"  Mine  is  the  goodliest  trade  ; 
Never  was  banner  so  wide  as  the  pall, 

Nor  sceptre  so  feared  as  the  spade.'' 

| 


(267) 


NATURE'S  GENTLEMAN. 

Whom  do  we  dub  as  gentlemen  ?    The  knave,  the  fool, 

the  brute  — 
If  they  but  own  full  tithe  of  gold  and  wear  a  courtly 

suit! 
The  parchment  scroll  of  titled  line,  the  riband  at  the 

knee, 

Can  still  suffice  to  ratify  and  grant  such  high  degree : 
But  nature,  with  a  matchless  hand,  sends  forth  her  nobly 

born, 
And  laughs  the  paltry  attributes  of  wealth  and  rank  to 

scorn ; 
She  moulds  with  care  a  spirit  rare,  half  human,  half 

divine, 
And  cries  exulting,  "Who  can  make  a  gentleman  like 

mine  ?  " 


She  may  not  spend  her  common  skill  about  the  outward 
part, 

But  showers  beauty,  grace,  and  light,  upon  the  brain 
and  heart  ? 

She  may  not  choose  ancestral  fame  his  pathway  to 
illume  — 

The  sun  that  sheds  the  brightest  day  may  rise  from 
mist  and  gloom. 

Should  fortune  pour  her  welcome  store,  and  useful  gold 
abound, 

He  shares  it  with  a  bounteous  hand  and  scatters  bless 
ings  round. 


268  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  treasure  sent  is  rightly  spent,  and  serves  the  end 

designed, 
When  held  by  nature's  gentleman,  the  good,  the  just, 

the  kind. 

He  turns  not  from  the  cheerless  home,  where  sorrow's 

offsprings  dwell ; 
He'll  greet  the  peasant  in  his  hut  —  the  culprit  in  his 

cell. 

He  stays  to  hear  the  widow's  plaint  of  deep  and  mourn 
ing  love, 
He  seeks  to  aid  her  lot  below,  and  prompt  her  faith 

above. 
The  orphan  child,  the  friendless  one,  the  luckless,  or 

the  poor, 
Will. never  meet  his  spurning  frown,  or  leave  his  bolted 

door; 
His  kindred  circles  all  mankind,  his  country  all  the 

globe  — 
An  honest  name  his  jewelled  star,  and  truth  his  ermine 

robe. 

He  wisely  yields  his  passions  up  to  reason's  firm  con 
trol — 

His  pleasures  are  of  crimeless  kind,  and  never  taint  the 
soul. 

He  may  be  thrown  among  the  gay  and  reckless  sons  of 
life, 

But  will  not  love  the  revel  scene,  or  head  the  brawling 
strife. 

He  wounds  no  breast  with  jeer  or  jest,  yet  bears  no 
honeyed  tongue ! 

He's  social  with  the  gray-haired  one  and  merry  with 
the  young ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  269 

He  gravely  shares  the  council  speech  or  joins  the  rus 
tic  game, 

And  shines  as  nature's  gentleman,  in  every  place  the 
same. 

No  haughty  gesture  marks  his  gait,  no  pompous  tone 

his  word, 
No  studied  attitude    is    seen,   no    palling    nonsense 

heard ; 
He'll  suit  his  bearing  to  the  hour  — laugh,  listen,  learn, 

or  teach, 
With  joyous  freedom  in  his  mirth,  and  candor  in  his 

speech. 
He  worships  God  with  inward  zeal,  and  serves  him  in 

each  deed ; 

He  would  not  blame  another's  faith  nor  have  one  mar 
tyr  bleed ; 
Justice  and  mercy  form  his  code ;  he  puts  his  trust  in 

Heaven ; 
His  prayer  is,  "  If  the  heart  mean  well,  may  all  else 

be  forgiven ! " 

Though  few  of  such  may  gem  the  earth,  yet  such  rare 
gems  there  are, 

Each  shining  in  his  hallowed  sphere  as  virtue's  polar 
star. 

Though  human  hearts  too  oft  are'  found  all  gross,  cor 
rupt,  and  dark, 

Yet,  yet  some  bosoms  breathe  and  burn  ;  lit  by  Prome 
thean  spark, 

There  are  some  spirits  nobly  just,  unwarped  by  pelf  or 
pride. 

Great  in  the  calm,  but  greater  still  when  dashed  by  ad 
verse  tide, — 

23* 


270  COOK'S  POEMS. 

They  hold  the  rank  no  king  can  give,  no  station  can 

disgrace, 
Nature  puts  forth  her  gentleman,  and  monarchs  must 

give  place. 


THE  SABBATH  BELL. 

PEAL  on,  peal  on,  I  love  to  hear 
The  old  church  ding-dong  soft  and  clear ! 
The  welcome  sounds  are  doubly  blest 
With  future  hope  and  earthly  rest. 
Yet  were  no  calling  changes  found 
To  spread  their  cheering  echoes  round, 
There's  not  a  place  where  man  may  dwell, 
But  he  can  hear  a  Sabbath  bell. 

Go  to  the  woods,  when  Winter's  song 
Howls  like  a  famished  wolf  along ; 
Or  when  the  south  winds  scarcely  turn 
The  light  leaves  of  the  trembling  fern, 
Although  no  cloister  chimes  ring  there, 
The  heart  is  called  to  faith  and  prayer ; 
For  all  Creation's  voices  tell 
The  tidings  of  the  Sabbath  bell. 

Go  to  the  biilov/s,  let  them  pour 
In  gentle  calm  or  headlong  roar ; 
Let  the  vast  ocean  be  thy  home, 
Thou'lt  f,nd  a  God  upon  the  foam ; 


COOK'S  POEMB.  271 

In  rippling  swell  or  stormy  roll,     • 
The  crystal  waves  shall  wake  thy  soul ; 
And  thou  shalt  feel  the  hallowed  spell 
Of  the  wide  water's  Sabbath  bell. 

The  lark  uponjiis  skyward  way. 
The  robin  on  the  hedge-row  spray, 
The  bee  within  the  wild  thyme's  bloom, 
The  owl  amid  the  cypress  gloom, 
All  sing  in  every  varied  tone 
A  vesper  to  the  trreat  Unknown. 
Above  —  below  —  one  chorus  swells 
Of  God's  unnumbered  Sabbath  bells. 


HANG  UP   HIS  HARP;  HE'LL  WAKE 
NO  MORE ! 

His  young  bride  stood  beside  his  bed, 

Her  weeping  watch  to  keep  ; 
Hush  !  hush  !  he  stirred  not  —  was  he  dead. 

Or  did  he  only  sleep  ? 

His  brow  was  aalm,  no  change  was  there 

No  sigh  had  filled  his  breath  ; 
Oh  !  did  he  wear  that  smile  so  fair 

In  slumber  or  in  death  ? 

"  Reach  down  his  harp,"  she  wildly  cried 
**  And  if  one  spark  remain, 


272  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Let  him  but  hear  *  Loch  Erroch's  side  ;' 
He'll  kindle  at  the  strain. 

"  That  tune  e'er  held  his  soul  in  thrall ; 

It  never  breathed  in  vain  ; 
He'll  waken  as  its  echoes  fall, 

Or  never  wake  again." 

The  strings  were  swept.    'Twas  sad  to  hear 

Sweet  music  floating  there  ; 
For  every  note  called  forfti  a  tear 

Of  anguish  and  despair. 

"  See  !  see ! "  she  cried,  "  the  tune  is  o'er, 

No  opening  eye,  no  breath  ; 
Hang  up  his  harp  ;  he'll  wake  no  more  ; 

He  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death." 


TO   A  FAVORITE  PONY. 

COME,  hie  thee  on,  my  gentle  Gyp ; 
Thy  rider  bears  nor  spur  nor  whip, 
But  smooths  thy  jetty,  shining  mane, 
And  loosely  flings  the  bridle-rein. 

i 

The  sun  is  down  behind  the  hill, 
The  noise  is  hushed  about  the  mill, 
The  gabbling  geese  and  ducks  forsake 
Their  sports  upon  the  glassy  lake, 


COOK'S  POEMS.  27ii 

The  herd-boy  folds  his  bleating  charge, 
The  watch-dog,  chainless,  roves  at  large, 
The  bees  are  gathered  in  the  hive, 
The  evening  flowers  their  perfumes  give 
On,  on,  my  gentle  Gyp  !  but  stay ; 
Say,  whither  shall  we  bend  our  way  ? 
Down  to  the  school-house,  where  the  boys 
Greet  us  with  rude  caressing  noise  ? 
Where  urchins  leave  their  balls  and  bats, 
To  stroke  thy  neck  with  fondling  pats  ; 
Where  laughing  girls  bring  oats  and  hay, 
And  coax  thy  ears  ;  well  knowing  they 
Can  sport  right  fearlessly  and  free 
With  such  a  gentle  brute  as  thee  ? 
Or  shall  we  take  the  sandy  road 
Towards  the  wealthy  squire's  abode  ? 
Where  the  lodge  gate,  so  wide  and  high, 
Swings  nobly  back  for  you  and  I ; 
I'll  warrant  me,  that  gate  thou'dst  find, 
Though  reinless,  riderless,  and  blind. 


Thou'rt  restless,  Gyp ;  come,  start  and  go :  — 

You  take  the  hill ;  well,  be  it  so  — 

The  squire's  abode,  I  plainly  see, 

Has  equal  charms  for  you  and  me. 

'Tis  there  thou  art  allowed  to  pick 

The  corners  of  the  clover  rick ; 

'Tis  there,  by  lady's  hand  thou'rt  fed 

On  pulpy  fruit,  and  finest  bread. 

The  squire  himself  declares  thou  art 

The  prettiest  pony  round  the  part : 

Nor  black,  nor  chestnut,  roan,  nor  gray, 

Can  match  with  thy  rich  glossy  bay 

i 
I 


274  COOK'S  POEMS. 

He  says,  thy  neck's  proud  curving  line 

The  artist's  pencil  might  define ; 

With  blood  and  spirit,  yet  so  mild, — 

A  fitting  plaything  for  a  child  ; 

So  meekly  docile,  thou'rt  indeed 

More  like  a  pet  lamb  than  a  steed ; 

That  when  thou'rt  gone,  St.  Leonard's  plain 

Will  never  see  thy  like  again ! 

He  says  all  this !     No  wonder,  then, 

I  think  the  squire  the  best  of  men : 

For  they  who  praise  thy  form  and  paces 

Are  sure  to  get  in  my  good  graces. 

The  squire  tells  truth  ;  to  say  the  least, 
Thou  really  art  a  clever  beast ; 
A  better  one,  take  altogether, 
Ne'er  looked  from  out  a  hempen  tether  : 
And  oft,  I  hope,  thou'lt  ne'er  be  having 
The  plague  of  glander,  gall,  or  spavin. 
Full  many  a  mile  thou'st  borne  me,  Gyp, 
Without  a  stumble,  shy,  or  slip  ; 
Excepting,  when  that  deep  morass, 
All  overgrown  with  weeds  and  grass, 
Betrayed  us  to  a  headlong  tumble, 
And  made  me  feel  a  little  humble ; 
But  on  we  went,  though  well  bespattered, 
Thy  knees  uncut,  my  bones  unshattered ! 

My  gentle  Gyp  !  I've  seen  thee  prove 
How  fast  a  twelve  hand  brute  can  move ; 
I've  seen  thee  keep  the  foremost  place 
And  win  the  hard  contested  race  ; 
I've  seen  thee  lift  as  light  a  leg 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  famous  Meg, 


COOK'S  POEMS.  275 

Who  galloped  on  right  helter-skelter, 
With  goblins  in  her  rear  to  pelt  her ; 
And,  closely  pressed  by  evil  kind, 
Left  her  unhappy  tail  behind. 
Stop,  fair  and  softly,  gentl'c  Gyp — 
I've  jingled  thus  far  in  our  trip ; 
But  now  we're  nigh  the  well-known  gate; 
So  steady  —  stand  at  ease — and  wait  — 
While  I  restore  to  hiding-place 
My  paper  and  my  pencil-case ; 
Stand  steady  —  and  another  time 
I'll  sing  thy  praise  in  better  rhyme. 


ABC. 

OH,  thou  Alpha  Beta  row, 
Fun  and  freedom's  earliest  foe, 
Shall  I  e'er  forget  the  primer, 
Thumbed  beside  some  Mrs.  Trimmer,— 
While  mighty  problem  held  me  fast, 
To  know  if  Z  was  first  or  last  ? 
And  all  Pandora  had  for  rne 
Was  emptied  forth  in  A  B  C. 

Teasing  things  of  toil  and  trouble, 
Fount  of  many  a  rolling  bubble, 
How  1  strive  d,  with  pouting  pain, 
To  get  thee  quartered  on  my  brain ; 


276  COOK'S  POEMS. 

But  when  the  giant  feat.was  done, 
How  nobly  wide  the  field  I'd  won  S 
Wit,  reason,  wisdom,  all  might  be 
Enjoyed  through  simple  A  B  C. 

Steps  that  lead  to  topmost  height 
Of  wordly  fame  and  human  might, 
Ye  win  the  orator's  renown, 
The  poet's  bays,  the  scholar's  gown ; 
Philosophers  must  bend  and  say 
'Twas  ye  who  oped  their  glorious  way. 
Sage,  statesman,  critic,  where  is  he 
Who's  not  obliged  to  A  B  C  ? 

Ye  really  ought  to  be  exempt 
From  slighting  taunt  and  cool  contempt ; 
But  drinking  deep  from  learning's  cup, 
We  scorn  the  hand  that  filled  it  up. 
Be  courteous,  pedants  —  stay  and  thank 
Your  servants  of  the  Roman  rank, 
For  F.  R.  S.  and  LL.  D. 
Can  only  spring  from  ABC. 


A  LOVE  SONG. 

DEAR  Kate,  I  do  not  swear  and  rave, 
Or  sigh  sweet  things  as  many  can ; 

But  though  my  lip  ne'er  plays  the  slave 
My  heart  will  not  disgrace  the  man. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  277 

I  prize  thee  —  ay,  my  bonnie  Kate, 

So  firmly  fond  this  breast  can  be, 
That  I  would  brook  the  sternest  fate 

If  it  but  left  me  health  and  thee. 

I  do  not  promise  that  our  life 

Shall  know  no  shade  on  heart  or  brow ; 
For  human  lot  and  mortal  strife 

Would  mock  the  falsehood  of  such  vow. 
But  when  the  clouds  of  pain  and  care 

Shall  teach  us  we  are  not  divine, 
My  deepest  sorrows  thou  shalt  share, 

And  I  will  strive  to  lighten  thine. 

We  love  each  other,  yet  perchance 

The  murmurs  of  dissent  may  rise  ; 
Fierce  words  may  chase  the  tender  glance, 

And  angry  flashes  light  our  eyes. 
But  we  must  learn  to  check  the  frown, 

To  reason  rather  than  to  blame  ; 
The  wisest  have  their  faults  to  own, 

And  you  and  I,  girl,  have  the  same. 

You  must  not  like  me  less,  my  Kate, 

For  such  an  honest  strain  as  this ; 
I  love  tkee  dearly,  but  I  hate 

The  puling  rhymes  of  "  kiss  "  and  "  bliss." 
There's  truth  in  all  I've  said  or  sung ; 

I  woo  thee  as  a  man  should  woo  ; 
And  though  I  lack  a  honeyed  tongue, 

Thou'lt  never  find  a  breast  more  true. 

24 


CUPID'S    ARROW. 

YOUNG  Cupid  went  storming  to  Vulcan  one  day, 

And  besought  him  to  look  at  his  arrow. 
"  'Tis  useless,"  he  cried  ;  "you  must  mend  it,  I  say ; 

'Tisn't  fit  to  let  fly  at  a  sparrow. 
There's  something  that's  wrong  in  the  shaft  or  the  dart, 

For  it  flutters  quite  false  to  my  aim  ; 
'Tis  an  age  since  it  fairly  went  home  to  the  heart, 

And  the  world  really  jests  at  my  name. 

"  I  have  straightened,  I've  bent,  I've  tried  all,  I  declare, 

I've  perfumed  it  with  sweetest  of  sighs  ; 
'Tis  feathered  with  ringlets  my  mother  might  wear, 

And  the  barb  gleams  with  light  from  young  eyes  ; 
But  it  falls  without  touching  —  I'll  break  it,  I  vow, 

For  there's  Hymen  beginning  to  pout ; 
He's  complaining  his  torch  burns  so  dull  and  so  low 

That  Zephyr  might  puff  it  right  out." 

Little  Cupid  went  on  with  his  pitiful  tale, 

Till  Vulcan  the  weapon  restored. 
"  There,  take  it,  young  sir ;  try  it  now — if  it  fail, 

I  will  ask  neither  fee  nor  reward." 
The  urchin  shot  out,  and  rare  havoc  he  made  : 

The  wounded  and  dead  were  untold ; 
But  no  wonder  the  rogue  had  such  slaughtering  trade, 

For  the  arrow  was  laden  with  gold. 


(279) 


NIGHT. 

THE  God  of  day  is  speeding  his  way 
Through  the  golden  gates  of  the  west ; 

The  rosebud  sleeps  in  the  parting  ray, 
The  bird  is  seeking  its  nest. 

v  love  the  light  —  yet  welcome,  Night 
For,  beneath  thy  darkling  fall 

The  troubled  breast  is  soothed  in  rest, 
And  the  slave  forgets  his  thrall. 

The  peasant  child,  all  strong  and  wild, 

Is  growing  quiet  and  meek ; 
All  fire  is  hid  'neath  his  heavy  lid, 

The  lashes  yearn  to  the  cheek. 

He  roves  no  more  in  gamesome  glee, 

But  hangs  his  weary  head, 
And  loiters  beside  the  mother's  knee 

To  ask  his  lowly  bed. 

The  butterflies  fold  their  wings  of  gold, 
The  dew  falls  chill  in  the  bower.  . 

The  cattle  wait  at  the  kineyard  gate. 
The  bee  hath  forsaken  the  flower ; 

The  roar  of  the  city  is  dying  fast, 

Its  tongues  no  longer  thrill ; 
The  hurrying  tread  is  faint  at  last, 

The  artizan's  hammer  is  still. 


280  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Night  steals  apace.     She  rules  supreme  ; 

A  hallowed  calm  is  shed  : 
No  footstep  breaks,  no  whisper  wakes  — 

'Tis.the  silence  of  the  dead. 

The  hollow  bay  of  a  distant  dog 

Bids  drowsy  Echo  start ; 
The  chiming  hour  from  an  old  churcn  tower 

Strikes  fearfully  on  the  heart. 

All  spirits  are  bound  in  slumber  sound, 

Save  those  o'er  a  death-bed  weeping ; 
Or  the  soldier  one  that  paces  alone, 

His  guard  by  the  watch-fire  keeping. 

With  ebon  wand  and  sable  robe, 

How  beautiful,  Night,  art  thou  ! 
Serenely  set  on  a  throne  of  jet, 

With  stars  about  thy  brow  ! 

Thou  com'st  to  dry  the  mourner's  eye, 

That,  wakeful,  is  ever  dim ; 
To  hush  for  awhile  the  grieving  sigh, 

And  give  strength  to  the  wearied  limb. 

Hail  to  thy  sceptre,  Ethiop  queen ! 

Fair  mercy  marks  thy  reign ; 
For  the  care-worn  breast  may  take  its  rest, 

And  the  slave  forget  his  chain. 

I 


281) 


AWAY  FROM   THE  REVEL. 

AWAY  from  the  revel !  the  night-star  is  up ; 
Away,  come  away,  there  is  strife  in  the  cup ! 
There  is  shouting  of  song,  there  is  wine  in  the  bowl ; 
But  listen  and  drink,  they  will  madden  thy  soul ! 

The  foam  of  the  goblet  is  sparkling  and  bright, 
Rising  like  gems  in  the  torches'  red  light ; 
But  the  glance  of  thine  eye,  if  it  lingers  there, 
Will  change  its  mild  beam  for  the  maniac's  glare. 

The  pearl-studded  chalice,  displaying  in  pride, 
May  challenge  thy  lip  to  the  purple  draught's  tide ; 
But  the  pearl  of  the  dew-drop,  the  voice  of  the  breeze, 
Are  dearer,  and  calmer,  more  blessed  than  these. 

Oh !  come,  it  is  twilight ;  the  night-star  is  up ; 
Its  ray  is  more  bright  than  the  silver-rimmed  cup ; 
The  boat  gently  dances,  the  snowy  sail  fills, 
We'll  glide  o'er  the  waters,  or  rove  on  the  hills. 

We'll  kneel  on  the  mountain,  beneath  the  dark  pine ; 
Our  hearts'  prayer  the  incense,  and  nature  the  shrine ; 
Back  on  the  festal  we'll  look  from  the  wave, 
As  the  eye  of  the  free  on  the  chains  of  the  slave ! 

Oh  !  come,  it  is  twilight ;  the  moon  is  awake  ; 
The  breath  of  the  vesper-chime  rides  o'er  the  lake  ; 
There  is  peace  all  around  us,  and  health  in  the  breeze, 
And  what  can  be  dearer,  more  blessed  than  these  ? 


(282) 


I  MISS  THEE,  MY  MOTHER. 

I  MISS  thee,  my  Mother !     Thy  image  is  still 

The  deepest  impressed  on  my  heart, 
And  the  tablet  so  faithful  in  death  must  be  chill 

Ere  a  line  of  that  image  depart 

Thou  wert  torn  from  my  side  when  I  treasured  thee 
most  — 

When  my  reason  could  measure  thy  worth ; 
When  I  knew  but  too  well  that  the  idol  I'd  lost 

Could  be  never  replaced  upon  earth. 

j! 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother,  in  circles  of  joy, 

Where  I've  mingled  with  rapturous  zest ; 
For  how  slight  is  the  touch  that  will  serve  to  destroy 

All  the  fairy  web  spun  in  my  breast ! 
Some  melody  sweet  may  be  floating  around  — 

'Tis  a  ballad  I  learnt  at  thy  knee  ; 
Some   strain   may  be   played,  and  I  shrink  from  the 
sound, 

For  my  fingers  oft  woke  it  for  thee. 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother ;  when  young  health  has  fled, 

And  I  sink  in  the  languor  of  pain, 
Where,  where  is  the  arm  that  once  pillowed  my  head 

And  the  ear  that  once  heard  me  complain  ? 
Other  hands  may  support,  gentle  accents  may  fall  — 

For  the  fond  and  the  true  are  yet  mine : 
I've  a  blessing  for  each  ;  I  am  grateful  to  all  — 

But  whose  care  can  be  soothing  as  thine  ? 


COOK'S  POEMS.  283 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother,  in  summer's  fair  day. 

When  I  rest  in  the  ivy-wreathed  bower, 
When  I  hang  thy  pet  linnet's  cage  high  on  the  spray, 

Or  gaze  on  thy  favorite  flower. 

There's  the  bright  gravel-path  where  I  played  by  thy 
side 

When  time  had  scarce  wrinkled  thy  brow, 
Where  I  carefully  led  thee  with  worshipping  pride 

When  thy  scanty  locks  gathered  the  snow. 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother,  in  winter's  long  night : 

I  remember  the  tales  thou  wouldst  tell  — 
The  romance  of  wild  fancy,  the  legend  of  fright  — 

Oh  !  who  could  e'er  tell  them  so  well  ? 
Thy  corner  is  vacant :  thy  chair  is  removed : 

It  was  kind  to  take  that  from  my  eye : 
Yet  relics  are  round  me  —  the  sacred  and  loved 

To  call  up  the  pure  sorrow-fed  sigh. 

I  miss  thee,  my  Mother !     Oh,  when  do  I  not  ? 

Though  I  know  'twas  the  wisdom  of  Heaven 
That  the  deepest  shade  fell  on  my  sunniest  spot, 

And  such  tie  of  devotion  was  riven ; 
For  when  thou  wert  with  me  my  soul  was  below, 

I  was  chained  to  the  world  I  then  trod ; 
My  affections,  my  thoughts,  were  all  earth-bound ;  but 
now 

They  have  followed  thy  spirit  to  God  ! 


(284) 


THERE'S  A  STAR  IN  THE  WEST. 

THERE'S  a  star  in  the  west  that  shall  never  go  down 

Till  the  records  of  valor  decay ; 
We  must  worship  its  light,  though  it  is  not  our  own, 

For  liberty  burst  in  its  ray. 
Shall  the  name  of  a  Washington  ever  be  heard 

By  a  freeman,  and  thrill  not  his  breast  ? 
Is  there  one  out  of  bondage  that  hails  not  the  word 

As  the  Bethlehem  star  of  the  west? 

"  War,  war  to  the  knife  !  be  enthralled  or  ye  die," 

Was  the  echo  that  woke  in  his  land ; 
But  it  was  not  his  voice  that  promoted  the  cry, 

Nor  his  madness  that  kindled  the  brand. 
He  raised  not  his  arm,  he  defied  not  his  foes, 

While  a  leaf  of  the  olive  remained  ; 
Till  goaded  with  insult,  his  spirit  arose 

Like  a  long-baited  lion  unchained. 

He  struck  with  firm  courage  the  blow  of  the  brave, 

But  sighed  o'er  the  carnage  that  spread  : 
He  indignantly  trampled  the  yoke  of  the  slave, 

But  wept  for  the  thousands  that  bled. 
Though  he  threw  back  the  fetters  and  headed  the  strife;, 

Till  man's  charter  was  fairly  restored  ; 
Yet  he  prayed  for  the  moment  when  freedom  and  life 

Would  no  longer  be  pressed  by  the  sword. 

Oh !  his  laurels  were  pure  ;  and  his  patriot  name 
In  the  page  of  the  future  shall  dwell, 


COOK'S  POEMS.  285 

And  be  seen  in  all  annals,  the  foremost  in  fame, 

By  the  side  of  a  Hofer  and  Tell. 
Revile  not  my  song,  for  the  wise  and  the  good 

Among  Britons  have  nobly  confessed 
That  his  was  the  glory  and  ours  was  the  blood 

Of  the  deeply-stained  field  of  the  west. 


THE  LOVED  ONE  WAS  NOT  THERE. 

WE  gathered  round  the  festive  board, 

The  crackling  faggot  blazed, 
But  few  would  taste  the  wine  that  poured, 

Or  join  the  song  we  raised. 
For  there  was  now  a  glass  unfilled  — 

A  favored  place.to  spare  ; 
All  eyes  were  dull,  all  hearts  were  chilled  — 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 

No  happy  laugh  was  heard  to  ring, 

No  form  would  lead  the  dance  ; 
A  smothered  sorrow  seemed  to  fling 

A  gloom  in  every  glance. 
The  grave  had  closed  upon  a  brow, 

The  honest,  bright,  and  fair  ; 
We  missed  our  mate,  we  mourned  the  blow  - 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 


1286) 


THE  MOURNERS. 

KING  Death  sped  forth  in  his  dreaded  power 

To  make  the  most  of  his  tyrant  hour ; 

And  the  first  he  took  was  a  white-robed  girl, 

With  the  orange  bloom  twined  in  each  glossy  curl 

Her  fond  betrothed  hung  over  the  bier, 

Bathing  her  shroud  with  the  gushing  tear : 

He  madly  raved,  he  shrieked  his  pain, 

With  frantic  speech  and  burning  brain. 

"  There's  no  joy,"  cried  he,  "  now  my  dearest  is  gone. 

Take,  take  me,  Death ;  for  I  cannot  live  on  ! " 


The  sire  was  robbed  of  his  eldest-born, 

And  he  bitterly  bled  while  the  branch  was  torn 

Other  scions  were  round  as  good  and  fair, 

But  none  seemed  so  bright  as  the  breathless  heir. 

"  My  hopes  are  crushed,"  was  the  father's  cry  ; 

"  Since  my  darling  is  lost,  I,  too,  would  die." 

The  valued  friend  was  snatched  away, 

Bound  to  another  from  childhood's  day  ; 

And  the  one  that  was  left  exclaimed  in  despair, 

«  Oh  !  he  sleeps  in  the  tomb— let  me  follow  him  there ! * 

A  mother  was  taken,  whose  constant  love 

Had  nestled  her  child  like  a  fair  young  dove  ; 

And  the  heart  of  that  child  to  the  mother  had  grown, 

Like  the  ivy  to  oak,  or  the  moss  to  the  stone : 

Nor  loud  nor  wild  was  the  burst  of  wo, 

But  the  tide  of  anguish  ran  strong  below  ; 


COOK'S  POEMS.  287 

And  the  reft  one  turned  from  all  that  was  light, 
From  the  flowers  of  day  and  the  stars  of  night ; 
Breathing  where  none  might  hear  or  see  — 
"  Where  thou  art,  my  mother,  thy  child  would  be." 

Death  smiled  as  he  heard  each  earnest  word : 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  he,  "  be  this  work  deferred  ; 

I'll  see  thee  again  in  a  fleeting  year, 

And,  if  grief  and  devotion  live  on  sincere, 

I  promise  then  thou  shalt  share  the  rest 

Of  the  being  now  plucked  from  thy  doating  breast; 

Then,  if  thou  cravest  the  coffin  and  pall 

As  thou  dost  this  moment,  my  spear  shall  fall." 

And  Death  fled  till  Time  on  his  rapid  wing 

Gave  the  hour  that  brought  back  the  skeleton  king. 

But  the  lover  was  ardently  wooing  again, 

Kneeling  in  serfdomv  and  proud  of  his  chain ; 

He  had  found  an  idol  to  adore, 

Rarer  than  that  he  had  worshipped  before  : 

His  step  was  gay,  his  laugh  was  loud, 

As  he  led  the  way  for  the  bridal  crowd ; 

And  his  eyes  still  kept  their  joyous  ray, 

Though  he  went  by  the  grave  where  his  first  love  lay. 

"  Ha !  ha ! "  shouted  Death,  "  'tis  passing  clear 

That  I  am  a  guest  not  wanted  here  ! " 

The  father  was  seen  in  his  children's  games', 
Kissing  their  flushed  brows  and  blessing  their  names ! 
And  his  eye  grew  bright  as  he  marked  the  charms 
Of  the  boy  at  his  knee  and  the  girl  in  his  arms  : 
His  voice  rung  out  in  the  merry  noise, 
He  was  first  in  all  their  hopes  and  joys  ; 


288  COOK'S  POEMS. 

He  ruled  their  sports  in  the  setting  sun, 

Nor  gave  a  thought  to  the  missing  one. 

"  Are  ye  ready  ?  "  cried  Death,  as  he  raised  his  dart 

"  Nay !  nay ! "  shrieked  the  father ;  "  in  mercy  depart ! " 

The  friend  again  was  quaffing  the  bowl, 

Warmly  pledging  his  faith  and  soul ; 

His  bosom  cherished  with  glowing  pride 

A  stranger  form  that  sat  by  his  side  ; 

His  hand  the  hand  of  that  stranger  pressed  ; 

He  praised  his  song,  he  echoed  his  jest ; 

And  the  mirth  and  wit  of  that  new-found  mate 

Made  a  blank  of  the  name  so  prized  of  late. 

"  See  !  see ! "  cried  Death,  as  he  hurried  past, 

"  How  bravely  the  bonds  of  friendship  last ! " 

But  the  orphan  child  !     Oh,  where  was  she  ? 

With  clasping  hands  and  bended  knee, 

All  alone  on  the  church-yard's  sod, 

Mingling  the  names  of  mother  and  God. 

Her  dark  and  sunken  eye  was  hid, 

Fast  weeping  beneath  the  swollen  lid  ; 

Her  sigh  was  heavy,  her  forehead  was  chill, 

Betraying  the  wound  was  unhealed  still ; 

And  her  smothered  prayer  was  yet  heard  to  crave 

A  speedy  home  in  the  self-same  grave. 

Hers  was  the  love  all  holy  and  strong ; 

Hers  was  the  sorrow  fervent  and  long ; 

Hers  was  the  spirit  whose  light  was  shed 

As  an  incense  fire  above  the  dead. 

Death  lingered  there,  and  paused  awhile ; 

But  she  beckoned  him  on  with  a  welcoming  smile. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  289 

"  There's  a  solace,"  cried  she,  "  for  all  others  to  find, 

But  a  mother  leaves  no  equal  behind." 

And  the  kindest  blow  Death  ever  gave 

Laid  the  mourning  child  in  the  parent's  grave. 


THE  KING   OF  THE  WIND. 

HE  burst  through  the  ice-pillared  gates  of  the  north, 

And  away  on  his  hurricane  wings  he  rushed  forth ; 

He  exulted  all  free  in  his  might  and  his  speed, 

He  mocked  at  the  lion  and  taunted  the  steed ; 

He  whistled  along,  through  each  cranny  and  creek ; 

He  whirled  o'er  the  mountains  with  hollow-toned  shriek ; 

The  arrow  and  eagle  were  laggard  behind, 

And  alone  in  his  flight  sped  the  King  of  the  Wind. 

He  swept  o'er  the  earth  —  the  tall  battlements  fell, 
And  he  laughed,  as  they  crumbled,  with  maniac  yell ; 
The  broad  oak  of  the  wood  dared  to  wrestle  again, 
Till,  wild  in  his  fury,  he  hurled  it  in  twain ; 
He  grappled  with  pyramids,  works  of  an  age, 
And  dire  records  were  left  of  his  havoc  and  rage. 
No  power  could  brave  him,  no  fetters  could  bind ; 
Supreme  in  his  sway  was  the  King  of  the  Wind. 

He  careered  o'er  the  waters  with  death  and  despair, 
He  wrecked  the  proud  ship  and  his  triumph  was  there 
The  cheeks  that  had  blanched  not  at  foeman  or  blade 
At  the  sound  of  his  breathing  turned  pale  and  afraid  ; 

25 


290  COOK'S  POEMS. 

He  rocked  the  stanch  lighthouse,  he  shivered  the  mast, 
He  howled—  the  strong  life-boat  in  fragments  was  cast ; 
And  he  roared  in  his  glory,  "  Where,  where  will  ye  find 
A  despot  so  great  as  the  King  of  the  Wind .  " 


THE  WREATHS. 

WHOM  do  we  crown  with  the  laurel  leaf? 

The  hero  god,  the  soldier  chief, 

But  we  dream  of  the  crashing  cannon-wheei. 

Of  the  flying  shot  and  the  reeking  steel, 

Of  the  crimson  plain  where  warm  blood  smokes, 

Where  clangor  deafens  and  sulphur  chokes  : 

Oh,  who  can  love  the  laurel  wreath, 

Plucked  from  the  gory  field  of  death  ? 

Whom  do  we  crown  with  summer  flowers? 
The  young  and  fair  in  their  happiest  hours. 
But  the  buds  will  only  live  in  the  light 
Of  a  festive  day  or  a  glittering  night ; 
We  know  the  verrnil  tints  Avill  fade  — 
That  pleasure  dies  with  the  bloomy  braid : 
And  who  can  prize  the  coronal 
That's  formed  to  dazzle,  wither,  and  fall  ? 

Who  wears  the  cypress,  dark  and  drear  ? 
The  one  who  is  shedding  the  mourner's  tear : 
The  gloomy  branch  for  ever  twines 
Round  foreheads  graved  with  sorrow's  lines. 


COOKS    POEMS. 


291 


'Tis  the  type  of  a  sad  and  lonely  heart, 
That  hath  seen  .ts  dearest  hopes  depart 
Oh,  who  can  like  the  chaplet  band 
That  is  wove  by  Melancholy's  hand  ? 

Where  is  the  ivy  circlet  found  ? 

On  the  one  whose  brain  and  lips  are  drowned 

In  the  purple  stream  —  who  drinks  and  laughs 

Till  his  cheeks  outflush  the  wine  he  quaffs. 

Oh,  glossy  and  rich  is  the  ivy  crown, 

With  its  gems  of  grape-juice  trickling  down; 

But,  bright  as  it  seems  o'er  the  glass  and  bo\r' 

It  has  stain  for  the  fc.sart  and  shade  for  the  sou. 

But  there's  a  green  and  ^Vagrant  leaf 
Betokens  nor  revelry,  blood,  nor  grief: 
'Tis  the  purest  am  iranth  springing  below, 
And  rests  on  the  calmest,  noblest  brow : 
It  is  not  the  right  of  the  monarch  or  lord, 
Nor  purchased  by  gold,  nor  won  by  the  sword ; 
For  the  lowliest  temples  gather  a  ray 
Of  quenchless  light  from  the  palm  of  bay. 

Oh,  beautiful  bay  !  I  worship  thee  — 
I  homage  thy  wreath  —  I  cherish  thy  tree  ; 
And  of  all  the  chaplets  Fame  may  deal, 
'Tis  only  to  this  one  I  would  kneel ; 
For  as  Indians  fly  to  the  banian  branch, 
When  tempests  lower  and  thunders  launch, 
So  the  spirit  may  turn  from  crowds  and  strife, 
And  seek  from  the  bay-wreath  joy  and  life. 


(292) 


OLD  PINCHER. 

WHEN  I  gave  to  old  Dobbin  his  song  and  his  due 
Apollo  I  feared  would  look  scornfully  blue ; 
I  thought  he  might  spurn  the  low  station  and  blood, 
And  turn  such  a  Pegasus  out  of  his  stud. 

But  another  "  four-footed  "  comes  boldly  to  claim 
His  place  beside  Dobbin  in  merits  and  fame ; 
He  shall  have  it,  —  for  why  should  I  be  over  nice, 
Since  Homer  immortalized  Ilion  —  and  mice  ? 

I  frolicked  a  youngling,  wild,  rosy,  and  fat, 
When  Pincher  was  brought  in  the  butcher-boy's  hat ; 
And  the  long-promised  puppy  was  hailed  with  a  joy 
That  ne'er  was  inspired  by  a  gold-purchased  toy. 

"  What  a  darling ! "   cried  I ;  while  my  sire,  with  a 

frown, 
Exclaimed,    "Hang  the   brute!    though  'tis  easy  to 

drown : " 

But  I  wept  at  the  word,  till  my  sorrowful  wail 
Won  his  total  reprieve  from  the  rope  or  the  pail. 

Regarding  his  beauty,  I'm  silent :  forsooth, 
I've  a  little  old-fashioned  respect  for  the  truth ; 
And  the  praise  of  his  color  or  shape  to  advance 
Would  be  that  part  of  history  known  as  romance. 

There  were  some  who  most  rudely  denounced  him  a 

"  cur." 
How  I  hated  that  name,  though  I  dared  not  demur ' 


COOK'S  POEMS.  293 

/  thought  him  all  fair ;  yet  I'll  answer  for  this, 

That  the  fate  of  Narcissus  could  ne'er  have  been  his. 

Now  Dobbin,  the  pony,  belonged  to  us  all, 
Was  at  every  one's  service,  and  every  one's  call ; 
Bu*  Pincher,  rare  treasure,  possession  divine, 
Was  held  undisputed  as  whole  and  sole  mine. 

Together  we  rambled,  together  we  grew. 
Many  plagues  had  the  household,  but  we  were  the  two 
Who  were  branded  the  deepest ;  all  doings  reviled 
Were  sure   to   be  wrought   by    "  that   dog   and  that 
child." 

Unkenneled  and  chainless,  yet  truly  he  served ; 
No  serfdom  was  known,  yet  his  faith  never  swerved : 
A  dog  has  a  heart,  — secure  that,  and  you'll  find 
That  love  even  in  brutes  is  the  safest  to  bind. 

If  my  own  kin  or  kind  had  demolished  my  ball, 

The   transgression   were   marked  with   a   scuffle  and 

squall ; 

But  with  perfect  consent  he  might  mouth  it  about. 
Till  the  very  last  atom  of  sawdust  was  out. 

When  halfpence  were  doled  for  the  holiday  treat, 
How  I  longed  for  the  comfits,  so  lusciously  sweet: 
But  cakes  must  be  purchased,  for  how  could  I  bear 
To  feast  on  a  luxury  Pinch  could  not  share  ? 

I  fondled,  I  fed  him,  I  coaxed  or  I  cuffed,  — 

I  drove  or  I  led  him,  I  soothed  or  I  huffed : 

He  had  beatings  in  anger,  and  huggings  in  love, 

But  which  were  most  cruel,  'twere  a  puzzle  to  prove. 

23* 


294  COOK'S  POEMS. 

If  he  dared  to  rebel,  I  might  battle  and  wage 
The  fierce  war  of  a  tyrant  with  petulant  rage : 
I  might  ply  him  with  kicks,  or  belabor  with  blows, 
But  Pincher  was  never  once  known  to  oppose. 

Did  a  mother  appear  the  loud  quarrel  to  learn, 
If  'twere  only  with  him  it  gave  little  concern : 
No  ill-usage  could  rouse  him,  no  insult  could  chafe ; 
While  Pinch  was  the  playmate  her  darling  was  safe. 

If  the  geese  on  the  common  gave  signal  of  fear, 
And  screams  most  unmusical  startled  the  ear, 
The  cause  was  soon  guessed ;  for  my  foremost  delight 
Was  in  seeing  Pinch  put  the  old  gander  to  flight 

Had  the  pantry  been  rifled  of  remnant  of  beef, 
Shrewd  suspicions  were  formed  of  receiver  and  thief, 
For  I  paused  not  at  crime,  and  I  blushed  not  at  fibs 
That  assisted  to  nurture  his  well-covered  ribs. 

The  warren  was  sacred,  yet  he  and  I  dared 

To  career   through   its   heath   till   the   rabbits  were 

scared ; 

The  gamekeeper  threatened  me  Pincli  should  be  shot ; 
But  the  threat  was  by  both  of  us  always  forgot. 

The  linen,  half  bleached,  must  be  rinsed  o'er  again ; 
And  our  footsteps  in  mud  were  "  remarkably  "  plain. 
The  tulips  were  crushed,  to  the  gardener's  dismay, 
And  when  last  we  were  seen  we  were  bending  that 
way. 

When  brought  to  the  bar  for  the  evil  we'd  done, 
Some  atrocious  spoliation  I  chose  to  call  "  fun :  * 


295 


Though  Pinch  was  Tiberius,  those  who  might  try 
Knew  well  that  the  active  Sejanus  was  I. 

But  we  weathered  all  gales,  and  the  years  sped  away, 
Till  his  "  bonnie  black  "  hide  was  fast  turning  to  gray 
When  accents  were  heard  most  alarmingly  sad, 
Proclaiming  that  Pincher,  my  Pincher,  was  mad. 

It  was  true  :  his  fixed  doom  was  no  longer  a  joke  ; 
He  that  moment  must  die  :  my  young  heart  was  nigh 

broke. 

I  saw  the  sure  fowling-piece  moved  from  its  rest, 
And  the  sob  of  keen  anguish  burst  forth  unsuppressed. 

A  shot,  —  a  faint  howl,  —  and  old  Pincher  was  dead. 
How  I  wept  while  the  gardener  prepared  his  last  bed  ! 
Something  fell  on  his  spade  too,  wet,  sparkling,  and 

clear  ; 
Though  he  said  'twas  a  dew-drop,  /  know  'twas  a  tear. 

Our  winter-night  circle  was  now  incomplete  ; 

We  missed  the  fond  brute  that  had   snoozed  at  our 

feet: 

All  his  virtues  were  praised,  all  his  mischief  forgot, 
We  lauded  his  merits,  and  sighed  o'er  his  lot. 

Poodle,  spaniel,  and  grayhound,  were  brought  for  my 

care, 

Of  beauty  and  breed  reckoned  preciously  rare  ; 
But  the  playmate  of  infancy,  friend  of  my  youth, 
Was  linked  with  a  lasting  affection  and  truth. 

He  was  never  supplanted  ;  nay,  mention  him  now, 
And  a  something  of  shadow  will  steal  from  my  brow, 


296  COOK'S  POEMS. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  will  burst  in  such  tone  of  regret, 
That  whispers  my  heart  is  his  lurking-place  yet 

No  wonder  ;  for  memory  brings  back  with  him 
The  thoughts  that  will  render  the  lightest  eye  dim; 
He  is  mingled  with  all  that  I  idolized  most, 
The  brightest,  the  purest,  the  loved,  and  the  lost. 

The  smile  of  a  parent,  the  dearest,  the  best, 
The  joys  of  my  forest  home  spring  to  my  breast, 
And  those  days  re-appear  with  a  halo  divine, 
When  old  Pincher,  a  mother,  and  childhood  were  mine. 


SONG  OF  THE  BLIND  ONE. 

THEY  talk  of  rainbows  in  the  sky,  and  blossoms  on  the 
earth, 

They  sing  the  beauty  of  the  stars  in  songs  of  love  and 
mirth; 

They  say  the  mountain  sod  is  fair  —  they  tell  of  dew- 
drops  bright, 

They  praise  the  sun  that  warms  the  day,  and  moon  that 
cheers  the  night. 

I  do  not  sigh  to  watch  the  sky,  I  do  not  care  to  see 

The  lustre  drop  on  green-hill  top,  or  fruit  upon  the  tree: 

I've  prayed  to  have  my  lids  unsealed,  but  'twas  not  to 
behold 

The  pearly  dawn  of  misty  morn,  or  evening  cloud  of 
gold. 


=J 


COOK'S  POEMS.  297 

No,  no,  my  Mary,  I  would  turn  from  flower,  star,  and 

sun, 
For  well  I  know  thou'rt  fairer  still,  my  own,  my  gentle 

one. 

I    hear  the  music  others   deem  most  eloquent    and 

sweet, 
The  merry  lark  above  my  head  —  the  cricket  at  rny 

feet; 
The  laughing  tones  of  childhood's  glee  that  gladden 

while  they  ring, 
The  robin  in  the   winter-time  —  the  cuckoo  in  the 

spring ; 

But  never  do  I  think  those  tones  so  beautiful  as  thine, 
When  kind  words  from  a  kinder  heart  confirm  that 

heart  is  mine. 

There  is  no  melody  of  sound  that  bids  my  soul  rejoice, 
As  when  I  hear  my  simple  name  breathed  by  thy  happy 

voice ; 

And,  Mary,  I  will  ne'er  believe  that  flower,  star,  or  sun 
Can  ever  be  so  bright  as  thou  mv  true,  my  gentle  one. 


THE   OLD  WATER-MILL. 

AND  is  this  the  old  mill-stream  that  ten  years  ago 
Was  so  fast  in  its  current,  so  pure  in  its  flow ; 
Whose  musical  waters  would  ripple  and  shine 
With  the  glory  and  dash  of  a  miniature  Rhine  ? 


293  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Can  this  be  its  bed  ?     I  remember  it  well 

When  it  sparkled  like  silver  through  meadow  and  dell ; 

When  the  pet-lamb  reposed  on  its  emerald  side, 

And  the  minnow  and   perch  darted  swift  through  ita 

tide, 

And  here  was  the  miller's  house,  peaceful  abode! 
Where  the  flower-twined  porch  drew  all  eyes  from  the 

road; 

Where  roses  and  jasmine  embowered  the  door 
That  never  was  closed  to  the  wayworn  or  poor. 

Where  the  miller,  God  bless  him !    oft  gave  us  "  a 

dance," 

And  led  off  the  ball  with  his  soul  in  his  glance  ; 
Who,  forgetting  gray  hairs,  was  as  loud  in  his  mirth 
As  the  veriest  youngsters  that  circled  his  hearth. 

Blind  Ralph  was  the  only  musician  we  had, 

But  his  tunes  —  oh !  such  tunes  —  would  make  any 
heart  glad ; 

"  The  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England,"  and  "  Green  grow 
the  Rushes," 

Woke  our  eyes'  brightest  beams  and  our  cheeks'  warm 
est  flushes. 

No  lustre  resplendent  its  brilliancy  shed, 

But  the  wood  fire  blazed  high,  and  the  board  was  well 

spread ;  « 

Our  seats  were  undamasked,  our  partners  were  rough, 
Yet,  yet  we  were  happy,  and  that  was  enough ! 

And  here  was  the  mill  where  we  idled  away 
Our  holiday  hours  on  a  clear  summer  day 


COOK'S    POEMS. 


299 


Where  Roger,  the  miller's  bay,  lolled  on  a  sack, 
And  chorused  his  song  to  the  merry  click-clack. 

But,  lo  !  what  rude  sacrilege  here  hath  been  done  ? 
The  streamlet  no  longer  purls  on  in  the  sun  ; 
Its  course  has  been  turned,  and  the  desolate  edge 
Is  now  mournfully  covered  with  duck-weed  and  sedge. 

The  mill  is  in  ruins.  —  No  welcoming  sound 

In  the  mastiff's  quick  bark  and  the  wheels  dashing 

round ; 

The  house,  too,  untenanted  —  left  to  decay  — 
And  the  miller,  long  dead :  all  I  loved  passed  away ! 

This  play-place  of  childhood  was  graved  on  my  heart, 
In  rare  Paradise  colors  that  now  must  depart; 
The  old  water-mill's  gone,  the  fair  vision  is  fled, 
And  I  weep  o'er  its  Avreck  as  I  do  for  the  dead. 


ROVER'S  SONG. 

I'M  afloat !  I'm  afloat  on  the  fierce  rolling  tide  ; 
The  ocean's  my  home  !  and  my  bark  is  my  bride ! 
Up  —  Up  with  my  flag !  let  it  wave  o'er  the  sea ; 
I'm  afloat!  I'm  afloat,  and  the  rover  is  free ! 

I  fear  not  a  monarch  —  I  heed  not  the  law  ; 
I've  a  compass  to  steer  by,  a  dagger  to  draw ; 


300  COOK'S  POEMS. 

And  ne'er  as  a  coward  or  slave  will  I  kneel, 
While  my  guns  carry  shot,  or  my  belt  bears  a  steel ! 

Quick  —  quick  —  trim  her  sails  ;  let  her  sheets  kiss  the 

wind ; 

And  I  warrant  we'll  soon  leave  the  sea-gull  behind ; 
Up  —  up  with  my  flag !  let  it  wave  o'er  the  sea ! 
I'm  afloat !  I'm  afloat !  and  the  rover  is  free  ; 

The  night  gathers  o'er  us ;  the  thunder  is  heard  ; 
What  matter  ?  our  vessel  skims  on  like  a  bird  ; 
What  to  her  is  the  dash  of  the  storm-ridden  main  ? 
She  has  braved  it  before,  and  will  brave  it  again ! 

The  fire-gleaming  flashes  around  us  may  fall ; 

They  may  strike ;   they  may  cleave  ;   but  they  cannot 

appal. 

With  lightnings  above  us,  and  darkness  below, 
Through  the  wild  waste  of  waters  right  onward  we  go ! 

Hurrah !  my  brave  crew  !  ye  may  drink  ;  ye  may  sleep; 
The  storm-fiend  is  hushed ;  we're  alone  on  the  deep ; 
Our  flag  of  defiance  still  waves  o'er  the  sea  ; 
Hurrah,  boys  !  hurrah,  boys  !  the  rover  is  free  ' 


(301) 


KINGS. 

OH,  covet  not  the  throne  and  crown, 

Sigh  not  for  rule  and  state  ; 
The  wise  would  fling  the  sceptre  down, 

And  shun  the  palace  gate. 

• 
Let  wild  ambition  wing  its  flight ; 

Glory  is  free  to  all : 
But  they  who  soar  a  regal  height 

Will  risk  a  deadly  fall. 

Take  any  high  imperial  name, 
The  great  among  the  great; 

What  was  the  guerdon  of  his  fame, 
And  what  his  closing  fate  ? 

The  hero  of  immortal  Greece, 

Unhappy,  fled  to  wine, 
And  died  in  Saturnalian  peace, 

As  drunkard,  fool,  and  swine. 

The  first  in  arms,  Rome's  victor  son, 

Fell  by  a  traitor's  aim, 
And  drew  the  purple  robes  he'd  won 

To  hide  his  blood  and  shame. 

Bold  Richard,  England's  lion  heart, 

Escaped  the  burning  fray, 
To  sink  beneath  a  peasant's  dart, 

And  groan  his  life  away. 

26 


302  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Gaul's  eagle,  he  whose  upraised  hand 
Swayed  legions  of  the  brave, 

Died  in  a  prison,  "  barred  and  banned," 
An  exile  and  a  slave. 

Scores  may  be  found  whose  tyrant-time 

Knew  not  one  hour  of  rest ; 
Their  lives  one  course  of  senseless  crime, 

Their  every  deed  unblest. 

Ye  blazing  stars  of  gems  and  gold, 
What  aching  hearts  ye  mock  ! 

Strong  marble  walls,  do  ye  not  hold 
Sword,  poison,  axe,  and  block  ? 

Many  have  cursed  the  crown  they've  worn, 
When,  hurled  from  place  and  rank, 

They  met  a  people's  groaning  scorn, 
And  trod  the  scaffold  plank. 

"  Uneasy  lies  the  monarch's  head," 
Despite  his  dazzling  wreath  ; 

The  hireling  by  his  dying  bed 
May  aid  the  work  of  death. 


His  cringing  horde  may  bow  the  neck, 

I 


Though  bid  to  lick  the  dust : 


He  may  have  serf  to  wait  his  beck, 
But  not  one  friend  to  trust. 

Ye  lowly  born,  oh !  covet  not, 
One  right  the  sceptre  brings  ; 

The  honest  name  and  peaceful  lot 
Outweigh  the  pomp  of  kings 


(303) 


TO  FANCY. 

SPIRIT  of  ethereal  birth ! 
Aerial  visitant  of  earth ! 
Flashing  vivid  through  the  soul, 
Warm  as  the  spark  Prometheus  stole 
Hither,  Fancy,  hither  come ; 
'Neath  thine  iris  wings  I'll  roam. 

Take  me  to  the  crystal  caves, 
Glassy  chambers  of  the  waves  ; 
Where  the  dolphin's  golden  back 
Splashes  gems  around  its  track, 
Cleaving  through  the  rocky  cells, 
Green  with  weeds,  and  rich  with  shells ; 
Where  the  Nereids  keep  their  court, 
Where  the  mermaids  hold  their  sport ; 
Where  the  syren  sings  to  sleep 
All  the  tenants  of  the  deep  ; 
Take  me  through  the  proud  blue  sea, 
Show  its  beauties  all  to  me  ! 


Waft  me  where  the  stars  appear, 
Where  the  other  worlds  career ; 
Let  me  scan  the  dazzling  scroll 
God's  hand  only  can  unroll ! 
Let  me  hear  the  saints  rejoice, 
Giving  praise  with  harp  and  voice  ; 
Let  me  tread  the  welkin  round, 
Lulled  in  soft  Elysian  sound ; 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

Let  me  rove  the  the  fields  of  light, 
Give  their  glories  to  my  sight 

Take  me  where  the  fairies  spring 
Round  about  their  moon-lit  ring 
Where  the  dancing  elfin  sprites 
Consecrate  their  mystic  rites  ; 
Lead  where  Hippocrene's  bright  fount 
Gushes  down  the  flowery  mount ; 
Where  Apollo's  hand  bestows 
Fadeless  wreaths  on  poets'  brows. 
Hither,  Fancy,  hither  come ; 
'Neath  thine  iris  wings  I'll  roam ! 


THE  SACRILEGIOUS  GAMESTERS. 

A  STRANGER  journeyed  through  the  town, 

One  dark  and  wintry  night ; 
And,  as  he  passed  the  ivied  church, 

He  marked  a  flitting  light. 

It  shed  a  restless  waving  gleam 
Through  the  Gothic  window  pane ; 

And  now  it  vanished  for  a  space, 
And  now  it  came  again. 

He  stood,  and  thought  it  wondrous  strange 
That  such  a  scene  should  be  ; 

He  stood,  and  now  the  pale  red  beam 
Shone  strong  and  steadily. 


COOKS    POEMS.  305 

He  looked  around  ;  all  else  was  dark, 

Not  e'en  a  star  was  left ; 
The  townsmen  slumbered,  and  he  thought 

Of  sacrilege  and  theft. 

He  roused  two  sleepers  from  their  beds. 

And  told  what  he  had  seen ; 
And  they,  like  him,  were  curious 

To  know  what  it  should  mean. 

They  hied  together  to  the  church, 

And  heard  strange  sounds  within 
Of  undistinguishable  words, 

And  laughter's  noisy  din  ! 

The  window's  high ;  a  ladder,  quick, 

Is  placed  with  stealthy  care, 
And  one  ascends  —  he  looks  below  ; 

Oh !  what  a  sight  is  there  ! 

The  white  communion-cloth  is  spread 

With  cards,  and  dice,  and  wine  ; 
The  flaming  wax-lights  glare  around, 

The  gilded  sconces  shine. 

And  three  of  earthly  form  have  made 

The  altar-rail  their  seat, 
With  the  Bible  and  the  books  of  prayer 

As  footstools  for  their  feet. 

Three  men,  with  flashing  bloodshot  eyes 

And  burning  fevered  brows, 
Have  met  within  those  holy  walls 

To  gambol  and  carouse. 


306  COOK'S  POEMS. 

But  the  darkest  work  is  not  yet  told  : 

Another  guest  is  there, 
With  the  earth-worm  trailing  o'er  his  cheek 

To  hide  in  his  matted  hair ! 

He  lifted  not  the  foaming  cup, 

He  moved  not  in  his  place ; 
There  was  slime  upon  his  livid  lips, 

And  dust  upon  his  face. 

The  foldings  of  a  winding-sheet 

His  body  Avrapped  around, 
And  many  a  stain  the  vestment  bore 

Of  the  clay  from  the  charnel  ground. 

A  rent  appeared,  where  his  withered  hands 

Fell  out  on  the  sacred  board  ; 
And  between  those  hands  a  goblet  stood, 

In  which  bright  wine  was  poured. 

Oh  !  he  was  not  like  the  other  three, 

But  ghastly,  foul,  and  cold  ; 
He  was  seated  there  a  stiffened  corpse 

All  horrid  to  behold. 

He  had  been  their  mate  for  many  a  year, 

Their  partner  many  a  game  ; 
He  had  shared  alike  their  ill-got  gold 

And  their  deeply  tarnished  fame. 

He  had  died  in  the  midst  of  his  career, 

As  the  sinful  ever  die. 
Without  one  prayer  from  a  good  man's  heart. 

One  tear  from  a  good  man's  eye ' 


COOKS  POP:MS. 


3C7 


He  had  died  a  guilty  one,  unblessed, 

Unwept,  unmourned  by  all ; 
And  scarce  a  footstep  ever  bent 

To  his  grave  by  the  old  church  wall. 

The  other  three  had  met  that  night, 

And  revelled  in  drunken  glee, 
And  talked  of  him  who  a  month  ago 

Formed  one  of  their  company. 

They  quaffed  another  brimming  glass, 

And  a  bitter  oath  they  swore 
That  he  who  had  joined  their  game  so  oft 

Should  join  their  game  once  more. 

And  away  they  strode  to  the  old  church  wall, 

Treading  o'er  skull  and  tomb, 
And  dragged  him  out  triumphantly, 

In  the  midnight  murky  gloom. 

They  carry  him  down  the  chancel  porch, 

And  through  the  fretted  aisle, 
And  many  a  heartless,  fiendish  laugh 

Is  heard  to  ring  the  while. 

They  place  him  at  the  hallowed  shrine, 

They  call  upon  his  name, 
They  bid  him  wake  to  life  again, 

And  play  his  olden  game. 

They  deal  the  cards  : —  the  ribald  jest 

And  pealing  laugh  ring  on. 
A  stroke  —  a  start  —  the  echoing  clock 

Proclaims  the  hour  of  one  ! 


308  COOK'S  POEMS. 

And  two  of  the  three  laugh  louder  still, 
But  the  third  stares  wildly  round : 

He  drops  the  cards,  as  if  his  hand 
Were  palsied  at  the  sound  ! 

His  cheeks  have  lost  their  deepened  flush, 

His  lips  are  of  paler  hue, 
And  fear  hath  fallen  on  the  heart 

Of  the  youngest  of  that  crew ! 

His  soul  is  not  yet  firmly  bound 
In  the  fetters  of  reckless  sin ! 

Depravity  hath  not  yet  wrought 
Its  total  work  within  ! 


The  strong  potation  of  tho  night 
Drowned  all  that  might  remain 

Of  feeling ;  and  his  hand  shrunk  not 
While  madness  fired  his  brain ! 

But  now  the  charm  hath  lost  its  spell, 
The  heated  fumes  have  passed  ; 

And  banished  reason  to  her  throne, 
Usurped,  advances  fast 

He  rises  —  staggers  —  looks  again 

Upon  the  shrouded  dead  ! 
A  shudder  steals  upon  his  frame : 

His  vaunted  strength  is  fled  ! 

He  doubts  —  he  dreams  —  can,  can  it  be  ? 

A  mist  is  o'er  his  eyes  ; 
He  stands  aghast.  —  "  Oh  !  what  is  this  ? 

Where  ?  where  ?  "  —  he  wildly  cries. 


I 

! 

COOK'S  POEMS.  309 

"  Where  am  I  ?  —  see  the  altar-piece  — 

The  holy  Bible  :  say  — 
Is  this  the  place  where  I  was  brought 

A  tiny  boy  to  pray  ? 

"  The  church  —  the  church-yard  too  —  I  know 

I  have  been  there  to-night ; 
For  what  ?    Ha !  mercy !  see  that  corpse  ! 

Oh,  hide  me  from  the  light ! 

"  I  have  been  deemed  a  profligate, 

A  gamester,  and  a  knave, 
But  ne'er  was  known  to  scoff  at  God 

Or  violate  the  grave  ! 

"  I've  long  been  what  man  should  not  be, 

But  not  what  I  am  now. 
Oh  help  me !  help !     My  tongue  is  parched ! 

There's  fire  upon  my  brow ! 

"  Oh  save  me  !  hide  me  from  myself! 

I  feel  my  pulses  start : 
The  horror  of  this  drunken  crime 

Hath  fixed  upon  my  heart ! 

"  Again  !  I  feel  the  rushing  blood  ! 

1  die !  —  the  unforgiven  ! 
Again,  it  comes  ;  all  —  all  is  dark  — 

I  choke  —  Oh !  mercy,  Heaven  !  " 

One  struggling  groan  —  he  reels  —  he  falls  — • 

On  the  altar-steps  he  lies  ; 
And  the  others  gasp  with  fear,  for  now 

Two  corpses  meet  their  eyes  ! 


310  COOI^S    POEMS. 

But,  hark!  swift  footsteps  echo  round* 

Encircled  now  they  stand : 
Surprised,  detected,  they  are  seized 

By  many  a  grappling  hand. 

Ai?J  soon  the  dreadful  tale  is  spread, 

And  many  a  finger  raised 
To  point  them  out ;  while  the  listening  one 

Looks  fearfully  amazed. 

They  are  shunned  by  all ;  the  son,  the  sire, 

The  heedless  and  the  gay  ; 
Their  old  associates  leave  their  side, 

And  turn  another  way. 

Hate,  shame,  and  scorn,  have  set  a  mark 

Upon  them.     One  by  one, 
Of  all  they  knew,  forsakes  their  path, 

Till  they  are  left  alone. 

And  they  have  sought  another  land, 

And  breathe  another  clime ; 
Where  men  may  deem  them  fellow-men. 

Nor  hear  their  blasting  crime ! 

And  gossips,  in  their  native  town, 

Even  now  are  heard  to  tell 
Of  the  sacrilegious  crew  that  turned 

The  old  church  to  a  hell. 


(311) 


WINTER. 

WINTER  is  coming !  who  cares  ?  who  cares  ? 

Not  the  wealthy  and  proud,  I  trow  ; 
"  Let  it  come,"  they  cry,  "  what  matters  to  us 

How  chilly  the  blast  may  blow  ? 

! 

I 

"  We'll  feast  and  carouse  in  our  lordly  halls, 

The  goblet  of  wine  we'll  drain ; 
We'll  mock  at  the  wind  with  shouts  of  mirth, 

And  music's  echoing  strain. 

I! 

"  Little  care  we  for  the  biting  frost, 

While  the  fire  gives  forth  its  blaze ; 
What  to  us  is  the  dreary  night, 

While  we  dance  in  the  waxlight's  rays  ?  n 

'Tis  thus  the  rich  of  the  land  will  talk ; 

But  think  !  oh,  ye  pompous  great, 
That  the  harrowing  storm  ye  laugh  at  within 

Falls  bleak  on  the  poor  at  your  gate  ! 

They  have  blood  in  their  veins,  aye,  pure  as  thine 

But  naught  to  quicken  its  flow ;  — 
They  have  limbs  that  feel  the  whistling  gale, 

And  shrink  from  the  driving  snow. 

Winter  is  coming  —  oh  !  think,  ye  great, 

On  the  roofless,  naked,  and  old  ; 
Deal  with  them  kindly,  as  man  with  man, 

And  spare  them  a  tithe  of  your  gold ! 


,312) 


THOSE  WE  LOVE. 

WE  leave  our  own  —  our  father-land, 

To  lead  the  wanderer's  fearful  life  -•— 
On  stormy  seas  or  desert  sand, 

In  pilgrim  peace  or  busy  strife  ; 
But  there's  a  hope  to  save  and  cheer 

Through  all  of  danger,  toil,  and  pain ; 
It  shines  to  dry  the  starting  tear, 

And  lights  the  pathway  back  again 
To  those  we  love. 

Let  others  give  us  gems  and  gold, 

With  gems  and  gold  we'd  lightly  part  — 
We  take  them,  but  we  do  not  hold 

The  treasures  sacred  in  the  heart. 
Such  costly  boons  may  have  the  power 

To  win  our  thanks  and  wake  our  pride  ; 
But  dearer  is  the  withered  flower 

That  has  been  worn  and  thrown  aside 
By  those  we  love. 

We  pine  beneath  the  regal  dome, 

We  prize  not  all  that's  rich  and  fair ; 
We  cannot  rest  in  princely  home, 

If  those  we  cherish  dwell  not  there. 
But  let  the  spirit  choose  its  lot, 

We'd  rather  take  the  rover's  tent, 
Or  gladly  share  the  peasant's  cot, 

And  bless  the  flying  moments  spent 
With  those  we  love. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  313 

And  when  at  last  the  hand  of  death 

Has  dimmed  the  glance  and  chilled  the  breast, 
When  trembling  word  and  fleeting  breath 

Dwell  on  the  name  we  like  the  best ;  — 
E'en  then,  however  keen  the  throe, 

'Tis  easy  for  ourselves  to  die  ; 
The  deepest  anguish  is  to  know 

That  grief  will  wring  the  mourner's  sigh 
From  those  we  love. 


SONG  OF  THE  SEA-GULLS. 

BIRDS  of  the  land,  ye  may  carol  and  fly 
O'er  the  golden  corn  'neath  a  harvest  sky  ; 
Your  portion  is  fair  mid  fields  and  flowers, 
But  it  is  not  so  broad  or  so  free  as  ours. 
Ye  are  content  with  the  groves  and  the  hills, 
Ye  feed  in  the  valleys  and  drink  at  the  rills  ; 
But  what  are  the  joys  of  the  forest  and  plain 
To  those  we  find  on  the  fresh  wide  main  ? 

Birds  of  the  land,  ye  rear  your  broods 

In  the  lofty  tree  or  tangled  woods, 

Where  the  branch  may  be  reft  by  the  howling  wind, 

Or  the  prowling  schoolboy  seek  and  find  ; 

But  we  roost  high  on  the  beetling  rock, 

That  firmly  stands  the  hurricane's  shock. 

Our  callow  young  may  rest  in  a  home 

Where  no  shot  can  reach  and  no  footstep  come. 

27 


314  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Birds  of  the  land,  ye  shrink  and  hide 

As  the  tempest-cloud  spreads  black  and  wide ; 

Your  songs  are  hushed  in  cowering  fear 

As  the  startling  thunder-clap  breaks  near  ; 

But  the  brave  gull  soars  while  the  deluge  pours, 

While  the  stout  ship  groans  and  the  keen  blast  roars. 

Oh  !  the  sea-gull  leads  the  gayest  life 

While  the  storm-fiends  wage  their  fiercest  strife. 

We  lightly  skim  o'er  the  breaker's  dash, 

Where  timbers  strike  with  parting  crash  ; 

We  play  round  the  dark  hull,  sinking  fast, 

And  find  a  perch  on  the  tottering  mast ; 

More  loud  and  glad  is  our  shrieking  note 

As  the  planks  and  spars  of  the  wrecked  bark  float. 

There  live  we  in  revelling  glee, 

Mid  the  whistling  gale  and  raging  sea. 

We  are  not  caught  and  caged  to  please 
The  fondled  heirs  of  wealth  and  ease : 
The  hands  of  beauty  never  come 
With  soft  caress  or  dainty  crumb  ; 
We  are  not  the  creatures  of  petted  love, 
We  have  not  the  fame  of  the  lark  or  dove ; 
But  our  screaming  tone  rings  harsh  and  wild. 
To  glad  the  ears  of  the  fisher's  child. 

He  hears  our  pinions  flapping  by, 
And  follows  our  track  with  wistful  eye, 
As  we  leave  the  clouds  with  rapid  whirl 
To  dive  'neath  the  water's  sweeping  curl. 
He  laughs  to  see  us  plunge  and  lave 
While  the  northern  gale  is  waking  the  wave 


COOK  S    POEMS.  315 


And  dances  about,  mid  sand  and  spray, 
To  mimic  the  sea-gull's  merry  play. 

We  hold  our  course  o'er  the  deep  or  the  land, 
O'er  the  swelling  tide  or  weed-grown  strand  ; 
We  are  safe  and  joyous  when  mad  waves  roll, 
We  sport  o'er  the  whirlpool,  the  rock,  and  the  shoal; 
Away  on  the  winds  we  plume  our  wings, 
And  soar  the  freest  of  all  free  things. 
Oh  !  the  sea-gull  leads  a  merry  life 
In  the  glassy  calm  or  tempest  strife. 


SONG  OF  THE  MARINERS. 

THE  miser  will  hold  his  darling  gold 

Till  his  eyes  are  glazed  and  his  hands  are  cold  ; 

The  minstrel  one  to  his  wild  lyre  clings 

As  though  its  chords  were  his  own  heart-strings 

No  dearer  boon  will  the  reveller  ask 

Than  the  draught  that  deepens  the  purple  flask ; 

But  the  firmest  love-link  that  can  be 

Chains  the  mariners  bold  to  the  pathless  sea. 

Choose  ye  who  will  earth's  dazzling  bowers, 
But  the  great  and  glorious  sea  be  ours  ; 
Give  us,  give  us  the  dolphin's  home, 
With  the  speeding  keel  and  splashing  foam  : 
Right  merry  are  we  as  the  sound  bark  springs 
On  her  lonely  track  like  a  creature  of  wings. 


316  COOK'S  POEMS. 

| 

Oh,  the  mariner's  life  is  blithe  and  gay, 
When  the  sky  is  fair  and  the  ship  on  her  way. 

We  love  the  perilous  sea,  because 
It  will  not  bend  to  man  or  his  laws  ; 
It  ever  hath  rolled  the  uncontrolled, 
It  cannot  be  warped  to  fashion  or  mould : 
Now  quiet  and  fair  as  a  sleeping  child ; 
Now  rousing  in  tempests  madly  wild  ; 
And  who  shall  wean  the  mighty  flood 
From  its  placid  dream,  or  passionate  mood  ? 

We  are  not  so  apt  to  forget  our  God 

As  those  who  dwell  on  the  dry  safe  sod ; 

For  we  know  each  leaping  wave  we  meet 

May  be  a  crystal  winding-sheet  ; 

We  know  each  blustering  gale  that  blows 

May  requiem  to  a  last  repose ; 

And  the  chafing  tide,  as  it  roars  and  swells, 

Hath  as  solemn  a  tone  as  the  calling  bells. 

The  land  has  its  beauty,  its  sapphire  and  rose ; 
But  look  on  the  colors  the  bright  main  shows, 
While  each  billow  flings  from  its  pearly  fringe 
The  lucid  jewels  of  rainbow  tinge. 
Go,  mark  the  waters  at  sunny  noon, 
Go,  float  beneath  the  full  clear  moon, 
And  cold  is  the  spirit  that  wakes  not  there 
With  wondering  praise  and  worshipping  prayer. 

'Tis  true,  we  may  sink  mid  deluge  and  blast, 

But  we  cope  with  the  strong,  we  are  quelled  by  tho 

vast; 
And  a  noble  urn  is  the  foundered  wreck, 


COOK'S  POEMS.  317 

Though  no  incense  may  bum,  and  no  flower  may  deck. 

We  need  no  stately  funeral  car ; 

But,  tangled  with  salt-weeds  and  lashed  to  a  spar, 

Down,  down  below  the  mariners  go, 

While  thunders  volley  and  hurricanes  blow. 

But  little  do  we  bold  mariners  care 
What  hour  we  fall,  or  what  risk  we  dare, 
For  the  groan  on  the  struggling  sailor's  lip 
Is  less  for  himself  than  his  dying  ship. 
Oh !  ours  is  the  life  for  the  free  and  the  brave  ; 
We  dance  o'er  the  planks  that  may  yawn  as  a  grave, 
We  laugh  mid  the  foam  of  our  perilous  home, 
And  are  ready  for  death  whene'er  it  may  come 
I 


LOVE. 


'Tis  well  to  wake  the  theme  of  love 
When  chords  of  wild  ecstatic  fire 

Fling  from  the  harp,  and  amply  prove 
The  soul  as  joyous  as  the  lyre. 

Such  theme  is  blissful  when  the  heart 
Warms  with  the  precious  name  we  pour ; 

When  our  deep  pulses  glow  and  start 
Before  the  idol  we  adore. 


Sing  ye,  whose  doating  eyes  behold, 

Whose  ears  can  drink  the  dear  one's  tone, 

27* 


318  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Whose  hands  may  press,  whose  arms  may  fold, 
The  prized,  the  beautiful,  thine  own. 

But,  should  the  ardent  hopes  of  youth 
Have  cherished  dreams  that  darkly  fled ; 

Should  passion,  purity,  and  truth, 
Live  on,  despairing  o'er  the  dead ; 

Should  we  have  heard  some  sweet  voice  hushed, 
Breathing  our  name  in  latest  vow  ; 

Should  our  fast  heavy  tears  have  gushed 
Above  a  cold,  yet  worshipped  brow  ; 


Oh !  say,  then  can  the  minstrel  choose 
The  themes  that  gods  and  mortals  praise  ? 

No,  no  ;  the  spirit  will  refuse, 

And  sadly  shun  such  raptured  lays. 

For  who  can  bear  to  touch  the  string 
That  yields  but  anguish  in  its  strain  ; 

Whose  lightest  notes  have  power  to  wring 
The  keenest  pangs  from  breast  and  brain  ? 


"  Sing  ye  of  love  in  words  that  burn,"   * 
Is  what  full  many  a  lip  will  ask ; 

But  love  the  dead,  and  ye  will  learn 
Such  bidding  is  no  gentle  task. 

Oh !  pause  in  mercy,  ere  ye  blame 
The  one  who  lends  not  love  his  lyre ; 

That  which  ye  deem  ethereal  flame 
May  be  to  him  a  torture  pyre. 


319) 


THE  BOAT-CLOAK. 

HE  is  ready  to  sail,  and  he  gazes  with  pride 

On  the  bright  buttoned  jacket,  the  dirk  by  his  side ; 

But  the  trappings  of  gold  do  not  waken  his  joy 

Like  the  boat-cloak  his  mother  flings  over  her  boy. 

With  graceful  affection  'tis  hung  on  his  arm, 

While  he  marks  its  full  drapery,  ample  and  warm. 

"  Thou'rt  my  shipmate,"  he  cries,  "  'twill  go  hard  if  we 

part,'' 
And  the  boat-cloak  seems  linked  to  the  sailor  boy'a 

heart.  • 

Years  brown  his  cheek,  and  far,  far  on  the  sea, 
Carefully  keeping  the  mid-watch  is  he. 
The  chill  breeze  is  defied  by  his  close-clinging  vest, 
For  the  weather-tanned  boat-cloak  encircles  his  breast. 
The  rocks  are  before  and  the  sands  are  behind, 
The  wind  mocks  the  thunder,  the  thunder  the  wind. 
The  noble  ship  founders  —  he  leaps  from  the  deck, 
And  his  boat-cloak  is  all  that  he  saves  from  the  wreck. 

Age  comes,  and  he  tells  of  his  perils  gone  by, 
Till  the  veteran  lays  him  down  calmly  to  die. 
And  soft  is  the  pillow  that  bears  hia  gray  head, 
And  warm  is  the  clothing  that's  heaped  on  his  bed. 
But  "  My  boat-cloak ! "  he  cries — "  I  am  turning  all  cold, 
Oh  wrap  me  once  more  in  its  cherishing  fold." 
'Tis  around  him,  he  clasps  it,  he  smiles,  and  he  sighs, 
He  murmurs,  "  My  boat-cloak,  thou'rt  warmest ! "  and 
dies. 


(320) 


THROUGH  THE  WATERS. 

THROUGH   the  forest,   through  the  forest,    oh  !     who 

would  not  like  to  roam, 
Where  the  squirrel  leaps  right  gaily  and  the  shy  fawn 

makes  a  home ; 
Where  branches,  spreading  high  and  wide,  shut  out 

the  golden  sun, 
And   hours  of  noontide  steal  away  all    shadowy  and 

dun? 
'Tis  sweet  to  pluck  the  ivy  sprigs  or  seek  the  hidden 

nest, 
To  track  the  spot  where  owlets  hide  and  wild  deer 

take  their  rest ; 
Through  the  forest,  through  the  forest,  oh,  'tis  passing 

sweet  to  take 
Our   lonely   way    rnid  springy  moss,  thick  bush,  and 

tangled  brake. 

Through  the  valley,   through  the  valley,  where   the 

glittering  harebells  peep, 
Where  laden  bees  go  droning  by,  and  hum  themselves 

to  sleep ; 
Where   all  that's  bright  with  bloom  and  light  springs 

forth  to  greet  the  day, 
And   every   blade   pours   incense   to   the   warm    and 

cloudless  ray  ; 
Where    children    come   to    laugh  away   their  happy 

summer  hours, 
To  chase  the  downy  butterfly,  or  crown  themselves 

with  flowers: 


COOK'S  POEMS.  321 

Through  the  valley,  through  the  valley,  oh !  who  does 

not  like  to  bask 
Amid  the  fairest  beauties  Heaven  can  give  or  man  can 

ask? 


Through  the  desert,  through  the   desert,  where  the 

Arab  takes  his  course, 
With  none  to  bear  him  company  except  his  gallant 

horse ; 

Where  none  can  question  will  or  right,  where  land 
marks  ne'er  impede, 

But  all  is  wide  and  limitless  to  rider  and  to  steed. 
No  purling  streamlet  murmurs  there,  no  checkered 

shadows  fall ; 
'Tis  torrid,  waste,  and  desolate,  but  free  to  each  and 

all. 
Through  the  desert,  through  the  desert !   Oh,  the  Arab 

wonld  not  change 
For  purple  robes  or  olive  trees  his  wild  and  burning 

range. 


Through  the  waters,  through  the  waters,  ah !  be  this 

the  joy  for  me, 

Upon  the  flowing  river  or  the  broad  and  dashing  sea ; 
Of  all  that  wealth  could  offer  me  the  choicest  boon  I'd 

crave 
Would   be   a  bold   arid  sturdy  bark  upon  the  open 

wave. 
I  love  to  see  the  wet  sails  fill  before  the  whistling 

breath, 
And  feel  the  ship  cleave  on  as  though  she  spurned  the 

flood  beneath. 


322  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Through  the  waters,  through  the  waters,  can  ye  tell 

me  what  below 
Is  freer  than  the  wind  lashed  main,  or  swifter  than  the 

prow  ?    * 

I  love  to  see  the  merry  craft  go  running  on  her  side ; 
I  laugh  to  see  her  splashing  on  before  the  rapid  tide ; 
I  love  to  mark  the  white  and  hissing  foam  come 

boiling  up, 
Fresh  as  the  froth  that  hangs   about  the  Thunderer's 

nectar  cup. 
All  sail  away :  ah !  who  would  stay  to  pace  the  dusty 

land 
If  once  they  trod  a  gallant  ship,  steered  by  a  gallant 

band. 
Through  the  waters,  through  the  waters,  oh!  there's 

not  a  joy  for  me 
Like  racing  with  the  gull  upon  a  broad  and  dashing 

sea! 


A  HOME  IN  THE  HEART. 

OH  !  ask  not  a  home  in  the  mansions  of  pride, 

Where  marble  shines  out  in  the  pillars  and  walls ; 
Though  the  roof  be  of  gold  it  is  brilliantly  coM, 

And  joy  may  not  be  found  in  its  torch-lighted  halls. 
But  seek  for  a  bosom  all  honest  and  true, 

Where  love  once  awakened  will  never  depart ; 
Turn,  turn  to  that  breast  like  the  dove  to  its  nest, 

And  you'll  find  there's  no  home  like  a  home  in  the  heart. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  323 

Oh !  link  but  one  spirit  that's  warmly  sincere, 

That  will  heighten  your  pleasure  and  solace  your 

care; 
Find  a  soul  you  may  trust  as  the  kind  and  the  just, 

And  be  sure  the  wide  world  holds  no  treasure  so  rare. 
Then  the  frowns  of  misfortune  may  shadow  our  lot, 

The  cheek-searing  tear-drops  of  sorrow  may  start, 
But  a  star  never  dim  sheds  a  halo  for  him 

Who  can  turn  for  repose  to  a  home  in  the  heart 


THE  SMUGGLER  BOY. 

WE  stole  away  at  the  fall  of  night, 

When  the  red  round  moon  was  deepening  her  light, 

But  none  knew  whither  our  footsteps  bent, 

Nor  how  those  stealthy  hours  were  spent ; 

For  we  crept  away  to  the  rocky  bay, 

Where  the  cave  and  craft  of  a  fierce  band  lay ; 

We  gave  the  signal-cry,  "  Ahoy  !  " 

And  found  a  mate  in  the  smuggler  boy, 

His  laugh  was  deep,  his  speech  was  bold, 
And  we  loved  the  fearful  tales  he  told 
Of  the  perils  he  met  in  his  father's  bark, 
Of  the  chase  by  day  and  the  storm  by  dark ; 
We  got  him  to  take  the  light  boat  out, 
And  gaily  and  freshly  we  dashed  about, 
And  naught  of  pleasure  could  ever  decoy 
From  the  moonlight  sail  with  the  smuggler  boy. 


324  COOK'S  POEMS. 

We  caught  his  spirit,  and  learnt  to  love 

The  cageless  eagle  more  than  the  dove  ; 

And  wild  and  happy  souls  were  we, 

Roving  with  him  by  the  heaving  sea. 

He  whispered  the  midnight  work  they  did, 

And  showed  us  where  the  kegs  were  hid : 

All  secrets  were  ours  —  a  word  might  destroy  — 

But  we  never  betrayed  the  smuggler  boy. 

We  sadly  left  him,  bound  to  range 


A  distant  path  of  care  and  change ; 

We  have  sought  him  again,  but  none  could  relate 

The  place  of  his  home,  or  a  word  of  his  fate : 

Long  years  have  sped,  but  we  dream  of  him  now, 

With  the  red  cap  tossed  on  his  dauntless  brow ; 

And  the  world  hath  never  given  a  joy 

Like  the  moonlight  sail  with  the  smuggler  boy 


THE  HOMES   OF   THE  DEAD. 

WE  must  not  make  a  home  for  the  dead, 

Nor  raise  an  osiered  mound, 
Till  the  eloquent  prayer  and  priestly  tread 

Have  sanctified  the  ground. 

But  there  are  those  who  fall  and  die 

Upon  the  desert  land, 
With  no  pall  above  but  the  torrid  sky, 

No  bier  but  the  scorching  sand. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  325 

No  turf  is  laid;  no  sexton's  spack 

Chimes  \n  with  the  mourner's  yroans  ; 

But  the  prowling  jackal  finds  a  feast, 
And  the  red  sun  crumbles  the  bones. 

There  are  those  who  go  down  in  the  dark  wild  sea, 
When  storms  have  wrecked  proud  ships, 

With  none  to  heed  what  the  words  may  be 
That  break  from  their  gurgling  lips. 

No  anthem  peal  flows  sweet  and  loud, 

No  tablets  mark  their  graves  ; 
But  they  soundly  sleep  in  a  coral  shroud, 

To  the  dirge  of  the  rolling  waves. 

There  are  those  who  sink  on  the  mountain  path, 

With  cold  and  curdling  blood  ; 
With  the  frozen  sleet  for  a  funeral  sheet, 

And  no  mates  but  the  vulture  brood  : 

No  tolling  bell  proclaims  their  knell, 

No  memory  stone  is  found ; 
But  the  snow-drift  rests  on  their  skeleton  breasts 

And  the  bleaching  winds  sweep  round. 

There  are  those  who  fall  on  the  purple  field, 

In  glory's  mad  career ; 
Their  dying  couch  —  a  battered  shield, 

Their  cross  of  faith  —  a  spear : 

No  priest  has  been  there  with  robes  and  prayer 

To  consecrate  the  dust ; 
Where  the  soldier  sleeps  his  steed  sleeps  too, 

And  his  gore-stained  weapons  rust 

•28 


326  COOK'S  POEMS. 

No  cypress  waves,  no  daisy  grows, 
Above  such  pillows  of  rest ; 

Yet  say,  are  the  riteless  graves  of  those 
Unholy  or  unblest  ? 

'Tis  well  to  find  our  last  repose 

'Neath  the  churchyard's  sacred  sod  ; 

But  those  who  sleep  in  the  desert  or  deep 
Are  watched  by  the  self-same  God. 


MY  BIRTHDAY. 

MOTHER,  there's  no  soft  hand  comes  now 

To  smooth  the  dark  curls  o'er  my  brow; 

I  hear  no  voice  so  low  and  mild 

As  that  which  breathed  "  my  own  loved  child." 

No  smile  will  greet,  no  lips  will  press, 

No  prayer  will  rise,  no  words  will  bless, 

So  fond,  so  dear,  so  true  for  me 

As  those  I  ever  met  from  thee. 

Oh !  that  my  soul  could  melt  in  tears, 

And  die  beneath  the  pain  it  bears ; 

The  grief  that  springs,  the  thoughts  that  goad, 

Become  a  heavy  maddening  load ; 

For  all  that  heart  and  memory  blends 

But  hotly  scathes  and  sorely  rends ; 

And  feeling,  with  its  biting  fangs, 

Tortures  with  sharp  and  bleeding  pangs. 


COOK'S  POEMS  327 

My  Mother  !  thou  did'st  prophesy 
With  sighing  tone  and  weeping  eye 
That  the  cold  world  would  never  be 
A  kindred  resting-place  for  me. 
Oh,  thou  wert  right !  I  cannot  find 
One  sympathetic  link  to  bind, 
But  where  some  dark  alloy  comes  in 
To  mar  with  folly,  wrong,  or  sin. 

My  Mother !  thou  did'st  know  full  well 
My  spirit  was  not  fit  to  dwell 
With  crowds  who  dream  not  of  the  ray 
That  burns  the  very  soul  away. 
That  ray  is  mine  ;  'tis  held  from  God, 
But  scourges  like  a  blazing  rod. 
And  never  glows  with  fiercer  flame 
Than  when  'tis  kindled  at  thy  name. 

My  Mother  !  thou  art  remembered  yet 
With  doting  love  and  keen  regret ; 
My  birthday  finds  me  once  again 
In  fervent  sorrow,  deep  as  vain. 
Thou  art  gone  for  ever,  I  must  wait 
The  will  of  Heaven,  the  work  of  fate 
And  faith  can  yield  no  hope  for  me 
Brighter  than  that  of  meeting  thee. 


1 388) 


PRAYER. 

How  purely  true,  how  deeply  warm, 

The  inly-breathed  appeal  may  be, 
Though  adoration  wears  no  form, 

In  upraised  hand  or  bended  knee. 
One  Spirit  fills  all  boundless  space, 

No  limit  to  the  when  or  where  ; 
And  little  recks  the  time  or  place 

That  leads  the  soul  to  praise  and  prayer. 

Father  above,  Almighty  one, 

Creator,  is  that  worship  vain 
That  hails  each  mountain  as  thy  throne, 

And  finds  a  universal  fane  ? 
When  shining  stars,  or  spangled  sod, 

Call  forth  devotion,  who  shall  dare 
To  blame,  or  tell  me  that  a  God 

Will  never  deign  to  hear  such  prayer  ? 

Oh,  prayer  is  good  when  many  pour 

Their  voices  in  one  solemn  tone  ; 
Conning  their  sacred  lessons  o'er 

Or  yielding  thanks  for  mercies  shown. 
'Tis  good  to  see  the  quiet  train 

Forget  their  worldly  joy  and  care, 
While  loud  response  and  choral  strain 

Re-echo  in  the  house  of  prayer. 

But  often  have  I  stood  to  mark 

The  setting  sun  and  closing  flower, 


COOK'S    POEMS. 

When  silence  and  the  gathering  dark 
Shed  holy  calmness  o'er  the  hour. 

Lone  on  the  hills,  my  soul  confessed 
More  rapt  and  burning  homage  there, 

And  served  the  Maker  it  addressed 
With  stronger  zeal  and  closer  prayer. 

When  watching  those  we  love  and  prize, 

Till  all  of  life  and  hope  be  fled  ; 
When  we  have  gazed  on  sightless  eyes, 

And  gently  stayed  the  falling  head ; 
Then  what  can  soothe  the  stricken  heart, 

What  solace  overcome  despair  ; 
What  earthly  breathing  can  impart 

Such  healing  balm  as  lonely  prayer  ? 

When  fears  and  perils  thicken  fast, 

And  many  dangers  gather  round  ; 
vVhen  human  aid  is  vain  and  past, 

No  mortal  refuge  to  be  found  ; 
Then  can  we  firmly  lean  on  heaven, 

And  gather  strength  to  meet  and  bear ; 
No  matter  where  the  storm  has  driven, 

A  saving  anchor  lives  in  prayer. 

Oh,  God  !  how  beautiful  the  thought, 

How  merciful  the  blessed  decree, 
That  grace  can  e'er  be  found  when  sought, 

And  naught  shut  out  the  soul  from  Thee. 
The  cell  may  cramp,  the  fetters  gall, 

The  flame  may  scorch,  the  rack  may  tear ; 
But  torture-stake,  or  prison  wall, 

Can  be  endured  with  faith  and  prayer. 

28* 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

In  desert  wilds,  in  midnight  gloom  , 

In  grateful  joy,  in  trying  pain  ; 
In  laughing  youth,  or  nigh  the  tomb  ; 

Oh  when  is  prayer  unheard  or  vain  ? 
The  Infinite,  the  King  of  kings, 

Will  never  heed  the  when  or  where  ; 
He'll  ne'er  reject  a  heart  that  brings 

The  offering  of  fervent  prayer. 


SONNET, 

WRITTEN   AT    THE    COUCH    OF    A    DYING   PARENT. 

'Tis  midnight !  and  pale  Melancholy  stands 
Beside  me,  wearing  a  funereal  wreath 
Of  yew  and  cypress  ;  the  faint  dirge  of  death 

Moans  in  her  breathing,  while  her  withered  hands 
Fling  corse-bedecking  rosemary  around. 

She  offers  nightshade,  spreads  a  winding-sheet, 

Points  to  the  clinging  clay  upon  her  feet, 
And  whispers  tidings  of  the  charnel  ground. 

Oh !  pray  thee,  Melancholy,  do  not  bring 
These  bitter  emblems  with  thee  ;  I  can  bear 

With  all  but  these,  —  'tis  these,  oh  God !  that  wring 
And  plunge  my  heart  in  maddening  despair, 

Hence,  for  awhile,  pale  Melancholy,  go ! 

And  let  sweet  slumber  lull  my  weeping  wo, 


,331) 


SONG  OF  THE  IMPRISONED  BIRD. 

VE  may  pass  me  by  with  pitying  eye, 

And  cry,  "  Poor  captive  thing !  " 
But  I'll  prove  ye  are  caged  as  safely  as  I, 

If  ye'll  hearken  the  notes  I  sing. 

1  flutter  in  thrall,  and  so  do  all ;  — 

Ye  have  bonds  ye  cannot  escape, 
With  only  a  little  wider  range, 

And  bars  of  another  shape. 

The  noble  ranks  of  fashion  and  birth 

Are  fettered  by  courtly  rule  ; 
They  dare  not  rend  the  shackles  that  tend 

To  form  the  knave  and  fool, 

The  parasite,  bound  to  kiss  the  hand 
That,  perchance,  he  may  lothe  to  touch ; 

The  maiden,  high-born,  wedding  where  she  may  scorn, 
Oh !  has  earth  worse  chains  than  such  ? 

The  one  who  lives  but  to  gather  up  wealth, 

Though  great  his  treasures  may  be, 
Yet,  guarding  with  care  and  counting  by  stealth,  — 

What  a  captive  wretch  is  he  ! 
ij 

The  vainly  proud,  who  turn  from  the  crowd, 

And  tremble  lest  they  spoil 
The  feathers  of  the  peacock  plume 

With  a  low  plebeian  soil ;  — 


332  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Oh !  joy  is  mine  to  see  them  strut 

In  their  chosen  narrow  space ; 
They  mount  a  perch,  but  ye  need  not  search 

For  a  closer  prison  place. 

The  being  of  fitful  curbless  wrath 

May  fiercely  stamp  and  rave  ; 
He  will  call  himself  free,  but  there  cannot  be 

More  mean  and  piteous  slave  ;  — 

For  the  greatest  victim,  the  fastest  bound, 
Is  the  one  who  serves  his  rage : 

The  temper  that  governs  will  ever  be  found 
A  fearful  torture  cage. 

Each  breathing  spirit  is  chastened  down 

By  the  hated  or  the  dear ; 
The  gentle  smile  or  tyrant  frown 

Will  hold  ye  in  love  or  fear. 

How  much  there  is  self-will  would  do, 
Were  it  not  for  the  dire  dismay 

That  bids  ye  shrink,  as  ye  suddenly  think 
Of  "  What  will  my  neighbor  say  ?  " 

Then  pity  me  not;  for  mark  mankind 

Of  every  rank  and  age  ; 
Look  close  to  the  heart,  and  ye'll  ever  find, 

That  each  is  a  bird  in  a  cage. 


(333 


THE  HEART —  THE  HEART! 

THE  heart  —  the  heart !  oh !  let  it  be 

A  true  and  bounteous  thing ; 
As  kindly  warm,  as  nobly  free, 

As  eagle's  nestling  wing. 
Oh !  keep  it  not,  like  miser's  gold, 

Shut  in  from  all  beside ; 
But  let  its  precious  stores  unfold, 

In  mercy,  far  and  wide. 
The  heart—  the  heart,  that's  truly  blest, 

Is  never  all  its  own  ; 
No  ray  of  glory  lights  the  breast 

That  beats  for  self  alone. 

The  heart  —  the  heart !  oh  !  let  it  spare 

A  sigh  for  other's  pain ; 
The  breath  that  soothes  a  brother's  care 

Is  never  spent  in  vain. 
And  though  it  throb  at  gentlest  touch, 

Or  sorrow's  faintest  call, 
TV  ere  better  it  should  ache  too  much, 

1  nan  never  ache  at  all. 
The  heart  — the  heart,  that's  truly  blest, 

Is  never  all  its  own  ; 
No  ray  of  glory  lights  the  breast 

That  beats  for  self  alone. 


(334) 


GALLA  BRAE. 

O,  TELL  me  did  ye  ever  see 

Sweet  Galla  on  a  simmer  night, 
When  ilka  star  had  oped  his  e'e, 

An'  tipped  the  broom  wi'  saft  pale  light3 
Ye'd  never  gang  toward  the  town, 

Ye  wadna  like  the  flauntie  day, 
If  ance  ye  saw  the  moon  blink  down 

Her  bonnie  beams  on  Galla  Brae. 

A'  silent,  save  the  wimpling  tune, 

The  win's  asleep,  nae  leaflet  stirs  ; 
O'  gie  me  Galla  neath  the  moon, 

Its  siller  birk  an'  goudon  furze. 
There's  monie  another  leesome  glen  ; 

But  let  'em  talk  o'  wilk  they  may, 
O'  a'  the  rigs  an'  shaws  I  ken 

There's  nane  sae  fair  as  Galla  Brae. 

I  crept  a  wee  thing  on  its  sod, 

A  laughing  laddie  there  I  strayed ; 
I  roved  beside  its  burnie's  tide 

In  morning  air  an'  gloaming  shade  : 
Its  gowans  were  the  first  I  pu'd, 

An'  still  my  leal  heart  loves  it  sae 
That  when  I  dee  nae  grave  would  be 

Sic  hallowed  earth  as  Galla  Brae 


(335) 


THE    KING'S  OLD  HALL. 

FEW  ages  since,  and  wild  echoes  awoke 
In  thy  sweeping  dome  and  panelling  oak ; 
Thy  seats  were  filled  with  a  princely  band, 
Rulers  of  men  and  lords  of  the  land. 
Loudly  they  raved,  and  gaily  they  laughed, 
O'er  the  golden  chalice  and  sparkling  draught ; 
And  the  glittering  board  and  gem-studded  plume 
Proclaimed  thee  a  monarch's  revelling  room. 

! 

But  now  the  spider  is  weaving  his  woof, 
Making  his  loom  of  thy  sculptured  roof; 
The  slug  is  leaving  his  slimy  stain, 
Trailing  his  way  o'er  thy  Gothic  pane  ; 
Weeds  have  gathered  and  moss  hath  grown 
On  thy  topmost  ridge  and  lowest  stone  ; 
And  the  wheeling  bat  comes  flapping  his  wing 
On  the  walls  that  circled  a  banqueting  king. 

The  idle  stare  and  vulgar  tread 

May  fall  where  the  regal  train  was  spread ; 

The  gloomy  owl  may  hide  its  nest, 

And  the  speckled  lizard  safely  rest. 

Who  were  the  revellers  ?  where  are  their  forms  ? 

Go  to  the  charnel,  and  ask  of  the  worms. 

They  are  low  in  the  dust,  forgotten  and  passed, 

And  the  pile  they  raised  is  following  fast. 

Oh,  man,  vain  man !  how  futile  your  aim, 

When  building  your  temples  to  pleasure  and  fame 


836  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Go,  work  for  heaven  with  faith  and  care  ; 
Let  good  works  secure  thee  a  mansion  there. 
For  the  palace  of  pageantry  crumbles  away  ; 
Its  beauty  and  strength  are  mocked  by  decay ; 
And  a  voice  from  the  desolate  halls  of  kings 
Cries,  "  Put  not  your  trust  in  corrupted  things  ! " 


THE  WILLOW-TREE. 

TREE  of  the  gloom,  o'erhanging  the  tomb, 

Thou  seem'st  to  love  the  churchyard  sod  ; 
Phou  ever  art  found  on  the  charnel  ground, 

Where  the  laughing  and  happy  have  rarely  trod. 
When  thy  branches  trail  to  the  wintry  gale, 

Thy  wailing  is  sad  to  the  hearts  of  men : 
When  the  world  is  bright  in  a  summer's  light, 

'Tis  only  the  wretched  that  love  thee  then. 
The  golden  moth  and  the  shining  bee 
Will  seldom  rest  on  the  willow-tree. 

The  weeping  maid  comes  under  thy  shade, 

Mourning  her  faithful  lover  dead  ; 
She  sings  of  his  grave  in  the  crystal  wave, 

Of  his  sea-weed  shroud  and  coral  bed. 
A  chaplet  she  weaves  of  thy  downy  leaves, 

And  twines  it  round  her  pallid  brow ; 
Sleep  falls  on  her  eyes  while  she  softly  sighs, 

"  My  love,  my  dearest,  I  come  to  thee  now  " 


COOK'S  POEMS.  337 

She  sits  and  dreams  of  the  moaning  sea, 

While  the  night  wind  creeps  through  the  willow-tree. 

The  dying  one  will  turn  from  the  sun, 

The  dazzling  flowers,  and  luscious  fruit, 
To  set  his  mark  in  thy  sombre  bark, 

And  find  a  couch  at  thy  moss-clad  root. 
He  is  fading  away  like  the  twilight  ray, 

His  cheek  is  pale  and  his  glance  is  dim ; 
But  thy  drooping  arms,  with  their  pensive  charms, 

Can  yield  a  joy  till  the  last  for  him  ; 
And  the  latest  words  on  his  lips  shall  be, 
"  Oh,  bury  me  under  the  willow-tree  !  " 


SONG  OF  THE  SUN. 

SUPREME  of  the  sky  —  no  throne  so  high  — 

I  reign  a  monarch  divine  ; 
What  have  ye  below  that  doth  not  owe 

Its  glory  and  lustre  to  mine  ? 
Has  beauty  a  charm  I  have  not  helped 

To  nurture  in  freshness  and  bloom  ? 
Can  a  tint  be  spread  —  can  a  glance  be  shed 

Like  those  I  deign  to  illume  ? 

Though  ye  mimic  my  beams,  as  ye  do  and  ye  will,  -•* 
Let  all  galaxies  meet,  I  am  mightiest  still ! 

The  first  red  ray  that  heralds  my  way, 
Just  kisses  the  mountain  top  ; 

•29 


338 


COOKS    POEMS. 


And  splendor  dwells  in  the  cowslip  bells 
While  I  kindle  each  nectar  drop: 

I  speed  on  my  wide  refulgent  path, 
And  nature's  homage  is  given; 

All  tones  are  poured  to  greet  me  adored 
As  I  reach  the  blue  inid-heaven, 

And  the  sweetest  and  boldest,  the  truly  free, 

The  lark  and  the  eagle  come  nearest  to  me. 


The  glittering  train  so  praised  by  man, 

The  moon,  night's  worshipped  queen, 
The  silvery  scud,  and  the  rainbow's  span, 

Snatch  from  me  their  colors  and  sheen. 
I  know  when  my  radiant  streams  are  flung, 

Creation  shows  al]  that  is  bright, 
But  I'm  jealous  of  naught  save  the  face  of  the  young, 

Laughing  back  my  noontide  light : 
I  see  nothing  so  pure  or  so  dazzling  on  earth, 
As  childhood's  brow  with  its  halo  of  mirth. 

My  strength  goes  down  in  the  crystal  caves, 

I  gem  the  billow's  wide  curl, 
I  paint  the  dolphin  and  burnish  the  waves, 

I  tinge  the  coral  and  pearl. 
Love  ye  the  flowers  ?     What  power,  save  mine, 

Can  the  velvet  rose  unfold  ? 
Who  else  can  purple  the  grape  on  the  vine, 

Or  flush  the  wheat-ear  with  gold  ? 
Look  on  the  beam-lit  wilderness  spot  — 
'Tis  more  fair  than  the  palace,  where  I  come  not. 

Though  giant  clouds  ride  on  the  whirlwind's  tide. 
And  gloom  on  the  world  may  fall, 


COOK'S  POEMS.  330 

I  yet  flash  on  in  gorgeous  pride, 

Untarnished  above  them  all. 
So  the  pure  warm  heart  for  a  while  may  appear, 

In  probations  of  sorrow  and  sin, 
To  be  dimmed  and  obscured,  but  trial  or  tear 

Cannot  darken  the  spirit  within. 
Let  the  breast  keep  its  truth,  and  life's  shadows  may 

roll, 
But  they  quench  not,  they  reach  not  the  sun  nor  the  soul. 


WHILE  THE  CHRISTMAS  LOG  IS  BURNING. 

HAIL  to  the  night  when  we  gather  once  more 

All  the  forms  we  love  to  meet : 
When  we've  many  a  guest  that's  dear  to  our  breast, 

And  the  household  dog  at  our  feet. 
.   Who  would  not  be  in  the  circle  of  glee 

When  heart  to  heart  is  yearning  — 
When  joy  breathes  out  in  the  laughing  shout 

While  the  Christmas  log  is  burning  ? 

'Tis  one  of  the  fairy  hours  of  life, 

When  the  world  seems  all  of  light ; 
For  the  thought  of  wo,  or  the  name  of  a  foe, 

Ne'er  darkens  the  festive  night. 
When  bursting  mirth  rings  round  the  hearth, 

Oh !  where  is  the  spirit  that's  mourning, 
While,  merry  bells  chime  with  the  carol  rhyme, 

And  the  Christmas  log  is  burning  ? 


340  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Then  is  the  time  when  the  gray  old  man 

Leaps  back  to  the  days  of  youth  ; 
When  brows  and  eyes  bear  no  disguise, 

But  flush  and  gleam  with  truth. 
Oh !  then  is  the  time  when  the  soul  exults, 

And  seems  right  heavenward  turning ; 
When  we  love  and  bless  the  hands  we  press, 

While  the  Christmas  log  is  burning. 


THE  ACORN. 

BEAUTIFUL  germ !  I  have  set  thee  low 
In  the  dewy  earth  —  strike,  spring,  and  grow- 
On!  cleave  to  the  soil,  and  thou  mayst  be 
The  king  of  the  woods,  a  brave  id-0,  tree. 
Acorn  of  England,  thou  mayst  bear 
Thy  green  head  high  in  the  mountain  air. 
Another  age,  and  thy  mighty  form 
May  scowl  r  k  he  sun  and  mock  the  storm. 

A  hundred  yva  *,  and  the  woodman's  stroke 
May  fiercely  tall  on  thy  heart  of  oak ; 
Let  time  roll  on,  and  thy  planks  may  ride 
In  glorious  state  o'er  the  fathomless  tide. 
Thou  mayst  baffle  the  waters,  and  firmly  take 
The  winds  that  sweep  and  waves  that  break; 
And  thy  vaunted  strength  shall  as  nobly  stand 
The  rage  of  the  sea  as  the  storm  on  the  land. 


341 


A  hundred  years,  and  in  some  fair  hall 

Thou  mayst  shine  as  the  polished  wainscot  wall ; 

And  ring  with  the  laugh  and  echo  the  jest 

Of  the  happy  host  and  the  feasting  guest. 

Acorn  of  England  !  deep  in  the  earth 

Mayst  thou  live  and  burst  in  flourishing  birth ; 

May  thy  root  be  firm  and  thy  broad  arms  wave, 

When  the  hand  that  plants  thee  is  cold  in  the  grave. 


FIRE. 

BLANDLY  glowing,  richly  bright, 
Cheering  star  of  social  light ; 
While  I  gently  heap  it  higher, 
How  I  bless  thee,  sparkling  fire  ! 
Who  loves  not  the  kindly  rays 
Streaming  from  the  tempered  blaze  ? 
Who  can  sit  beneath  his  hearth 
Dead  to  feeling,  stern  to  mirth  ? 
Who  can  watch  the  crackling  pile 
And  keep  his  breast  all  cold  the  while. 

Fire  is  good,  but  it  must  serve: 
Keep  it  thralled  —  for  if  it  swerve 
Into  freedom's  open  path, 
What  shall  check  its  maniac  wrath  ? 
Where's  the  tongue  that  can  proclaim 
The  fearful  work  of  curbless  flame  ? 

29' 


342  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Darting  wide  and  shooting  high, 
It  lends  a  horror  to  the  sky  ; 
It  rushes  on  to  waste,  to  scare, 
Arousing  terror  and  despair ; 
It  tells  the  utmost  earth  can  know- 
About  the  demon  scenes  below ; 
And  sinks  at  last,  all  spent  and  dead, 
Among  the  ashes  it  has  spread. 

Sure  the  poet  is  not  wrong 
To  glean  a  moral  from  the  song. 
Listen,  youth  !  nor  scorn,  nor  frown, 
Thou  must  chain  thy  passions  down. 
Well  to  serve,  but  ill  to  sway, 
Like  the  fire  they  must  obey. 
They  are  good  in  subject  state 
To  strengthen,  warm,  and  animate  ; 
But  if  once  we  let  them  reign, 
They  sweep  with  desolating  train, 
Till  they  but  leave  a  hated  name, 
A  ruined  soul,  and  blackened  fame. 


A  SUMMER  SKETCH. 

'Tis  June,  'tis  merry  smiling  June ; 

'Tis  blushing  summer  now : 
The  rose  is  red  —  the  bloom  is  dead 

The  fruit  is  on  *he  bough. 


— "I 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

Flora,  with  Ceres,  hand  in  hand, 
Bring  all  their  smiling  train : 

The  yellow  corn  is  waving  high, 
To  gild  the  earth  again. 

The  bird-cage  hangs  upon  the  wall, 

Amid  the  clustering  vine : 
The  rustic  seat  is  in  the  porch, 

Where  honeysuckles  twine. 

The  rosy  ragged  urchins  play 

Beneath  the  glowing  sky  ; 
They  scoop  the  sand,  or  gaily  chase 

The  bee  that  buzzes  by. 

The  household  spaniel  flings  his  length 
Along  the  stone-paved  hall : 

The  panting  sheep-dog  seeks  the  spot 
Where  leafy  shadows  fall. 

The  petted  kitten  frisks  among 
The  bean-flowers'  fragrant  maze  ; 

Or,  basking,  throws  her  dappled  form 
To  court  the  warmest  rays. 

The  opened  casement,  flinging  wide, 

Geraniums  give  to  view  ; 
With  choicest  posies  ranged  between, 

Still  wet  with  morning  dew. 

'Tis  June,  'tis  merry  laughing  June  ; 

There's  not  a  cloud  above  ; 
The  air  is  still,  o'er  heath  and  hill, 

The  bulrush  does  not  move. 


344  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  pensive  willow  bends  to  kiss 
The  stream  so  deep  and  clear ; 

While  dabbling  ripples  gliding  on, 
Bring  music  to  mine  ear. 

The  mower  whistles  o'er  his  toil, 
The  em'rald  grass  must  yield  ; 

The  scythe  is  out,  the  swarth  is  down. 
There's  incense  in  the  field. 

Oh !  how  I  love  to  calmly  muse 

In  such  an  hour  as  this  ; 
To  nurse  the  joy  creation  gives, 

In  purity  and  bliss  ' 

There  is  devotion  in  my  soul 
My  lip  can  ne'er  impart ; 

But  thou,  oh  God  !  wilt 'deign  to  read 
The  tablet  of  my  heart 

And  if  that  heart  should  e'er  neglect 
The  homage  of  its  prayer, 

Lead  it  to  nature's  altar-piece, — 
'Twill  always  worship  there. 


'345) 


SONG  OP  OLD  TIME. 

I  WEAR  not  the  purple  of  earth-born  kings, 

Nor  the  stately  ermine  of  lordly  things ; 

But  monarch  and  courtier,  though  great  they  be, 

Must  fall  from  their  glory  and  bend  to  me. 

My  sceptre  is  gemless ;  yet  who  can  say 

They  will  not  come  under  its  mighty  sway  ? 

Ye  may  learn  who  I  am, — there's  the  passing  chim* , 

And  the  dial  to  herald  me,  Old  King  Time ! 

Softly  I  creep,  like  a  thief  in  the  night, 
After  cheeks  all  blooming  and  eyes  all  light ; 
My  steps  are  seen  on  the  patriarch's  brow, 
In  the  deep-worn  furrows  and  locks  of  snow. 
Who  laughs  at  my  power  ?  the  young  and  the  gay  , 
But  they  dream  not  how  closely  I  track  their  way. 
Wait  till  their  first  bright  sands  have  run, 
And  they  will  not  smile  at  what  Time  hath  done. 

I  eat  through  treasures  with  moth  and  rust ; 
I  lay  the  gorgeous  palace  in  dust ; 
I  make  the  shell-proof  tower  my  own, 
And  break  the  battlement,  stone  from  stone. 
Work  on  at  your  cities  and  temples,  proud  man, 
Build  high  as  ye  may,  and  strong  as  ye  can ; 
But  the  marble  shall  crumble,  the  pillar  shall  fall, 
And  Time,  Old  Time,  will  be  king  after  all. 


(346) 


THE  BONNIE  SCOT. 

bonnie  Scot !  he  hath  nae  got 

A  hame  o'  sun  an  light ; 
His  clime  hath  aft  a  dreary  day 

An'  mony  a  stormy  night. 
He  hears  the  blast  gae  crooning  past, 

He  sees  the  snowflake  fa' : 
But  what  o'  that  ?    He'll  tell  ye  still, 

His  land  is  best  o'  a' : 
He  wadna'  tine,  for  rose  or  vine, 

The  go  wans  round  his  cot; 
There  is  nae  bloom  like  heath  an'  broom, 

To  charm  the  bonnie  Scot 

The  roarin'  din  o'  flood  an'  linn 

Is  music  unco  sweet ; 
He  loves  the  pine  aboon  his  head, 

The  breckans  'neath  his  feet : 
The  lavrock's  trill,  sae  clear  an'  shrill, 

Is  matchless  to  his  ear ; 
What  joy  for  him  like  bounding  free 

To  hunt  the  fleet  dun  deer  ? 
Nae  wonder  he  sae  proudly  scorns 

A  safter,  kinder  lot ; 
He  kens  his  earth  gave  Wallace  birth 

That  brave  and  bonnie  Scot 


(347) 


THE  OLD  CLOCK. 

CLOCK  of  the  household,  the  sound  of  thy  bell 
Tells  the  hour,  and  to  many  'tis  all  thou  canst  tell ; 
But  to  me  thou  canst  preach  with  the  tongue  of  a  sage, 
And  whisper  old  tales  from  life's  earliest  page. 
Thou  bringest  hack  visions  of  heart-bounding  times, 
When  thy  midnight  stroke  chorused  the  loud-carolled 

chimes ; 

When  our  Christmas  was  noticed  for  festival  mirth, 
And  the  merry  New  Year  had  a  boisterous  birth. 

Thou  hast  broke  on  my  ear  through  the  dead  of  the 

night, 

Till  my  spirit,  out-wearied,  lias  prayed  for  the  light ; 
When  thy  echoing  tone,  and  a  mother's  faint  breath, 
Seemed  the  sepulchre  tidings  that  whispered  of  death. 
I  have  listened  to  thee,  when  my  own  pillowed  brow 
Was  wild  in  its  throbbing  and  deep  in  its  glow; 
When  the  madness  of  fever,  and  anguish  of  pain, 
Left  a  doubt  if  I  ever  should  hear  thee  again. 

Thou  hast  always  been  nigh  :  thou  hast  looked  upon  all, 
On  the  birth — on  the  bridal — the  cradle — and  pall : 
To  the  infant  at  play  and  the  sire  turning  gray, 
Thou  hast  spoken  the  warning  of  "  passing  away." 
My  race  may  be  run,  when  thy  musical  chime 
Will  be  still  ringing  out  in  the  service  of  Time  ; 
And  the  clock  of  the  household  will  chime  in  the  room, 
When  I,  the  forgotten  one,  sleep  in  the  tomb  ! 


ji  I 

(348) 

^ 


WASHINGTON. 

i 

LAND  of  the  west  !  though  passing  brief  the  record  ol 

thine  age, 
Thou  hast  a  name  that  darkens  all  on  history's  wide 


Let  all  the  blasts  of  fame  ring  out  —  thine  shall  be 

loudest  far  : 
Let  others  boast  their  satellites  —  thou  hast  the  planet 

star. 
Thou  hast  a  name  whose  characters  of  light  shall  ne'ei 

depart  ; 
'Tis  stamped  upon  the  dullest  brain,  and  warms  the 

coldest  heart  ; 

A  war-cry  fit  for  any  land  where  freedom's  to  be  won. 
Land  of  the  west  !    it  stands  alone  —  it  is  thy  Was« 


mgton 


Rome  had  its  Csesar,  great  and  brave ;    but  stain  was 

on  his  wreath ; 
He  lived  the  heartless  conquerer,  and  died  the  tyrant's 

death. 
France  had  its  Eagle  ;  but  his  wings,  though  lofty  they 

might  soar, 
Were  spread  in  false  ambition's  flight,  and  dipped  in 

murder's  gore. 
Those  hero-gods,  whose  mighty  sway  would  fain  have 

chained  the  waves  — 
Who  fleshed  their  blades  with  tiger  zeal,  to  make  a 

world  of  slaves  — 


COOK'S  POEMS.  349 

Who,  though  their  kindred  barred  the  path,  still  fierce 
ly  waded  on  — 

Oh,  where  shall  be  their  "  glory  "  by  the  side  of  Wash 
ington  ? 

He  fought,  but  not  with  love  of  strive  ;    he  struck  but 

to  defend  ; 
And  ere  he  tun  ied  a  people's  foe,  he  sought  to  be  a 

friend. 
He  strove  to  keep  his  country's  right  by  reason's  gentle 

word. 
And  sighed  when  fell  injustice  threw  the  challenge  — 

sword  to  sword. 
He  stood  the  firm,  the  calm,  the  wise,  the  patriot  and 

sage; 
He   showed   no   deep,   avenging   hate  —  no   burst  of 

despot  rage. 
He    stood    for     liberty    and    truth,    and    dauntlessly 

led  on, 

Till  shouts  of  victory  gave  forth  the  name  of  Wash 
ington. 

No  car  of  triumph  bore  him  through  a  city  filled  with 
grief : 

No  groaning  captives  at  the  wheels  proclaimed  him 
victor  chief: 

He  broke  the  gyves  of  slavery  with  strong  and  high 
disdain, 

And  cast  no  sceptre  from  the  links  when  he  had  crush 
ed  the  chain. 

He  saved  his  land,  but  did  not  lay  his  soldier  trappings 
down 

To  change  them  for  the  regal  vest,  and  don  a  kingly 
crown. 

30 


350 

Fame  was  too  earnest  in  her  joy  —  too  proud  of  such  a 

son  — 
To  let  a  robe  and  title  mask  a  noble  Washington. 

England,  my  heart  is  truly  thine  —  my  loved,  my  native 

earth !  — 
The  land  that  holds  a  mother's  grave,  and  gave  that 

mother  birth ! 
Oh,  keenly  sad  would  be  the  fate  that  thrust  me  from 

thy  shore, 
And  faltering  my  breath  that  sighed,  "  Farewell  for 

evermore ! " 
But  did  I  meet  such  adverse  lot,  I  would  not  seek  to 

dwell 
Where  olden  heroes  wrought  the  deeds  for  Homer's 

song  to  tell. 
Away,  thou  gallant  ship  !    I'd  cry,  and  bear  me  swiftly 

on: 
But  bear  me  from  my  own  fair  land  to  that  of  Wash* 

ington ! 


THE  LAST  GOOD-BYE. 

FAREWELL  !  Farewell !  is  often  heard 
From  the  lips  of  those  who  part : 

'Tis  a  whispered  tone,  'tis  a  gentle  word, 
But  it  springs  not  from  the  heart. 

It  may  serve  for  the  lover's  lay, 
To  be  sung  'rieath  a  summer  sky  • 


i 


COOK'S  POEMS.  r>.">! 

But  give  me  the  lips  that  say 
The  honest  words,  "  Good-bye  !  " 

Adieu !  Adieu !  may  greet  the  ear 

In  the  guise  of  courtly  speech  ; 
But  when  we  leave  the  kind  and  dear, 

'Tis  not  what  the  soul  would  teach. 
Whene'er  we  grasp  the  hands  of  those' 

We  would  have  for  ever  nigh, 
The  flame  of  friendship  burns  and  glows 

In  the  warm,  frank  words,  "  Good-bye  !  ** 

The  mother  sending  forth  her  child 

To  meet  with  cares  and  strife, 
Breathes  through  her  tears  her  doubts  and  fears 

For  the  loved  one's  future  life. 
No  cold  " adieu,"  no  " farewell"  lives 

Within  her  choking  sigh  ; 
But  the  deepest  sob  of  anguish  gives, 

"  God  bless  thee,  boy !  —  good-bye  ! " 

*o,  watch  the  pale  and  dying  one, 

When  the  glance  has  lost  its  beam  — 
When  the  brow  is  cold  as  the  marble-stone, 

And  the  world  a  passing  dream  ; 
4nd  the  latest  pressure  of  the  hand, 

The  look  of  the  closing  eye, 
ifield  what  the  heart  must  understand  — 

A  long,  a  last  "  Good-bye." 


(352) 


THE  OLD  BARN. 

THE  barn,  the  old  barn,  oh !  its  dark  walls  were  rife 
With  the  records  most  fair  in  my  tablet  of  life ; 
And  a  rare  barn  it  was,  for,  search  twenty  miles  round 
Such  another  brave  building  was  not  to  be  found. 

'Twas  large  as  an  ark,  'twas  strong  as  a  church, 
'Twas   the  chicken's  resort,  'twas  the   young  raven's 

perch ; 
There  the  bat  flapped  his  wing,  and  the  owlet  migh 

screech, 
Secure  in  the  gable-ends,  far  out  of  reach. 

It  was  evident  Time  had  been  playing  his  pranks 
With  the  moss-garnished  roof  and  <he  storm-beaten 

planks ; 

For  many  a  year  had  the  harvest-home  wain 
Creaked  up  to  its  door  with  the  last  load  of  grain 

A  wee  thing,  they  tumbled  me  into  its  mow, 
And  left  me  to  scramble  out,  Heaven  knows  how; 
A  wild,  merry  girl,  the  old  barn  was  the  spot 
Which  afforded  delight  that  is  still  unforgot. 

'Twas  a  birthday,  one  scion  was  walking  life's  stage, 
In  youth's  proudest  of  characters  — just  come  of  age ; 
Many  plans  were  devised  —  but  the  chosen  of  all 
Was  to  cle.ir  out  the  old  barn,  and  "  get  up  a  ball." 


COOKS    POEMS.  353 

We  had  prayed,  we  had  hoped  that  the  lanes  might  be 

dry, 

That  no  cloud  would  come  over  the  moon-lighted  sky  ; 
But,  alas !  'twas  November,  and  fog,  sleet,  and  gloom, 
Made  night  of  our  jubilee  dark  as  the  tomb. 

The  rain  fell  in  torrents  —  the  wind  roared  along  — 
The  watch-dog  howled  back  to  the  rude  tempest  song ; 
And  we  trembled  and  feared  lest  the  merriest  set 
Should  be  scared  by  that  true  English  sunshine  —  the 
wet. 

But,  hark  !  what  loud  voices,  what  rumbling  of  wheels, 
What  stepping  in  puddles,  what  tragical  "  squeals  !  " 
While  close-tilted  wagons  and  mud-spattered  carts 
Set  down  a  rare  cargo  of  happy  young  hearts. 

What  a  dance  was  the  first  —  with  what  pleasure  we 

went 

Down  the  middle  and  up  till  our  breathing  was  spent ! 
Though  Musard  might  have  shrugged  at  a  bit  of  a 

strife 
'Twixt  the  notes  of  the  fiddle  and  key  of  the  fife. 

Our  flooring  was  rugged,  our  sconces  had  rust ; 
There  was  falling  of  grease — there  was  raising  of  dust , 
But  Terpsichore  published  a  Morning  Post  "yarn  " 
On  the  Almacks  we  held  in  the  noble  old  barn. 

Then  the  rat-hunt !  oh,  mercy  !  we  hear  poets  speak 
Of  the  tug  of  fierce  battle  when  "  Greek  joins  with 

Greek;" 

But  war  held  as  wild  and  as  deadly  a  reign 
When  the  terriers  met  the  destroyers  of  grain. 

30* 


354  COOK'S  POEMS. 

The  smith  left  his  bellows  —  the  miller  his  sack  — 
'Twas  fortunate  business  grew  suddenly  slack : 
The  thatcher  was  there,  and  the  thatcher's  boy  too, 
And,  somehow,  the  butcher  had  nothing  to  do. 

The  'Squire  lent  his  stick  and  his  voice  to  the  fray,  — - 
He,  of  course,  only  "  chanced  to  be  riding  that  way ; " 
And  the  master  —  the  ploughman  —  the  rich  and  the 

poor, 
Stood  Equality's  jostling  about  the  barn-door. 

•A  tide  was  bustling  old  Pincher,  all   fierceness   and 

bark, 

And  even  fat  Dido  as  gay  as  a  lark ; 
Snap,  Vixen,  and  Bob,  and  another  full  score, 
For  though  rats  might  be  many — the  dogs  were  oft 

more. 

'Twas  sport,  I  dare  say,  but  such  works  were  torn 

down, 

That  the  sapient  "  master  '  looked  on  with  a  frown ; 
And  saw,  without  aid  of  astrologer's  star, 
That  the  hunters  were  worse  than  the  hunted  by  far. 

Full  well  I  remember  our  taking  the  ale 
To  the  good-natured  fellow  who  toiled  at  the  flail ; 
When  the  boy  who  now  sleeps  with  a  stone  at  his  feet 
Would  fain  try  his  hand  as  a  thrasher  of  wheat. 

'Twjis    agreed  to  —  and  boldly  he    swung  the  bright 

staff, 

With  an  awkwardness  raising  a  tittering  laugh, 
Which  strengthened  to  bursting  Vulgarity's  tone, 
When,  instead  of  on  wheat-ears,  it  fell  on  his  own. 


. j 


COOK  S    POEMS.  355 

Ever  luckless  in  daring,  'twas  he  who  slipped  down, 
With  a  broken-out  tooth  and  a  broken-in  crown  — 
When  he  clambered  up  high  on  the  cross-beams  to 

feed 
The  unhappy  stray  cat  and  her  tortoise-shell  breed. 

'Twas  he  who,  in  petulance,  sulked  to  his  home, 
And  packed  up  his  bundle  the  wide  world  to  roam ; 
But,  with  penitent  heart  and  a  shelterless  head, 
He  came  back  to  the  sheaves  in  the  barn  for  a  bed. 

'Twas  a  bitter  cold  night,  when  I  heard,  with  a  pout, 
That  the  stables  were  full  and  old  Dobbin  turned  out : 
Old  Dob  who  had  seen  a  score  miles  since  the  morn ; 
'Twas  a  shame  and  a  cruelty  not  to  be  borne. 

A  brother  was  ready  —  the  pony  was  caught  — 
Brought   in   he   must   be — yet    where    could    he    be 

brought ; 

But  short  was  the  parley,  and,  munching  away, 
He  was  warm  in  the  barn  with  his  oats  and  his  hay. 


The  barn  was  the  place  where  the  beams  and  the 

Gave  our  mischievous  faculties  plenty  of  scope ; 

And  when  rick  lines  were  found,  knotted,  severed,  and 

frayed, 
Not  a  word  did  we  breathe  of  the  swings  we  had 

made. 

"Hide  and  seek  "  was  the  game  that  delighted  us  most, 
When  we  stealthily  crept  behind  pillar  and  post; 
When  the  law  was  enforced  that  "  Home  "  should  not 

be  won, 
Till  we'd  circled  the  barn  in  our  scampering  run. 

i 


356  COOK'S  POEMS. 

I'd  a  merry  heart  then  —  but  I  scarcely  know  why 
I  should  look  into  Memory's  page  with  a  sigh ; 
'Tis  ungrateful  to  turn  to  the  past  with  regret, 
When  we  hold  a  fair  portion  of  happiness  yet 

My  laugh  in  that  day  was  a  spirited  shout, 

But  still  it  is  heard  to  ring  joyously  out; 

My  friends  were  the  warmest  that  childhood  could  find, 

But  those  round  me  still  are  endearingly  kind. 

"  Long  ago,"  has  too  often  awakened  my  soul, 

Till  my  pale  brow  would  sink  and  the  tear-drop  would 

roll: 

Down,  down,  busy  thought,  for  the  future  may  be 
As  bright  as  the  time  of  the  old  barn  for  me. 


SONG    OF  THE    DYING  OLD  MAN  TO  HIS 
YOUNG  WIFE. 

KATE,  there's  a  trembling  at  my  heart,  a  coldness  at 

my  brow, 
My  sight  is  dim,  my  breath  is  faint,  I  feel  I'm  dying 

now; 
But  ere  my  vision  fadeth  quite,  ere  all  of  strength  be 

o'er, 
Oh  !  let  me  look  into  thy  face  and  press  thy  hand  once 

more. 


COOK'S  P^EMS.  357 

would  my  latest  glance  should  fall  on  what  I  hold 

most  dear  : 
But,  ah !  thy  cheek  is  wet  again — wipe,  wipe  away  the 

tear. 
Such  tears  of  late  have  often  gemmed  thy  drooping 

eyelid's  fringe, 
Such  tears  of  late  have  washed  away  thy  young  cheek'a 

ruddy  tinge. 

I  brought  thee  from  a  simple  home  to  be  an  old  man's 
bride, 

Thou  wert  the  altar  where  I  laid  affection,  joy,  and 
pride ; 

My  heart's  devotion,  like  the  sun,  shone  forth  with  dim- 
less  power, 

And  kept  its  brightest  glory  rays  to  mark  its  setting 
hour. 

I  brought  thee  from  a  simple  home,  when  early  friends 

had  met, 
And  something  filled  thy  farewell  tone  that  whispered 

of  regret. 
Oh !    could  I  wonder,  when  you  left  warm  spirits  like 

your  own, 
To  dwell  upon  far  distant  earth  with  age  and  wealth 

alone  ? 

i 

I  gazed  with  holy  fondness  on  thy  meek  retiring  eye, 
Soft  in  its  beaming  as  the  first  fair  star  of  evening's 

sky; 
I  mzirked  the  dimpled  mirth  around  thy  sweet  lips  when 

they  smiled, 
And  while  I  loved  thee  as  a  bride  I  blest  thee  as 

child. 


But,  oh !  thy  young  and  glowing  heart  could  not  respond 
to  mine, 

My  whitened  hairs  seemed  mocked  by  those  rich  sunny 
curls  of  thine  ; 

And  though  thy  gentle  faith  was  kind  as  woman's  faith 
can  be, 

'Twas  as  the  spring-flower  clinging  round  the  winter- 
blighted  tree. 

My  speech  is  faltering  and  low  —  the  world  is  fading 

fast  — 
The  sands  of  life  are  few  and  slow  —  this  day  will  be 

my  last ; 
I've  something  for  thine  ear  —  bend  close  —  list  to  my 

failing  word, 
Lay  what  I  utter  to  thy  soul,  and  start  not  when  'tis 

heard. 

There's  one  who  loves  thee  —  though  his  love  has  never 

lived  in  speech  — 

He  worships  as  a  devotee  the  star  he  cannot  reach ; 
He  strives  to  mask  his  throbbing  breast  and  hide  its 

burning  glow ; 
But  I  have  pierced  the  veil  and  seen  the  struggling 

heart  below. 

Nay,  speak  not.  I  alone  have  been  the  selfish  and  un 
wise  ; 

Young  hearts  will  nestle  with  young  hearts,  young  eyes 
will  meet  young  eyes. 

And  when  I  saw  his  earnest  glance  turn  hopelessly 
away, 

I  thanked  the  hand  of  Time  that  gave  me  warning  of 
decay. 


COOKS    POEMS.  359 

I  question  not  thy  bosom,  Kate  —  I  cast  upon  thy 
name 

No  memory  of  jealous  fear,  no  lightest  shade  of 
blame. 

I  know  that  he  has  loved  thee  long,  with  deep  and  se 
cret  truth ; 

I  know  he  is  a  fitting  one  to  bless  thy  trusting  youth. 

Weep  not  for  me  with  bitter  grief;    I  would  but  have 

thee  tell, 
That  he  who  bribed  thee  to  his  heart  has  cherished 

thee  right  well. 
I  give  thee  to  another,  Kate  —  and   may  that  other 

prove 
As   grateful  for  the  blessing  held,  as  doting  in  his 

love. 

Bury  me  in  the  churchyard  where  the  dark  yew  branch 
es  wave, 

And  promise  thou  wilt  come  sometimes  to  weed  the  old 
man's  grave ; 

'Tis  all  I  ask!  I'm  blind  — I'm  faint  — take,  take  my 
parting  breath  — 

I  die  within  thy  arms,  my  Kate,  and  feel  no  sting  of 
death. 


(360) 


THE  INDIAN  HUNTER. 

OH,  why  does  the  white  man  follow  my  path, 

Like  the  hound  on  the  tiger's  track  ? 
Does  the  flush  on  my  dark  cheek  waken  his  wrath  ? 

Does  he  covet  the  bow  on  my  back  P 
He  has  rivers  and  seas,  where  the  billows  and  breeze 

Bear  riches  for  him  alone  ; 
And  the  sons  of  the  wood  never  plunge  in  the  flood 

Which  the  white  man  calls  his  own. 

Why,  then,  should  he  come  to  the  streams  where  none 

But  the  red-skin' dare  to  swim  ? 
Why,  why  should  he  wrong  the  hunter  one, 

Who  never  did  harm  to  him  ? 
The  Father  above  thought  fit  to  give, 

The  white  men  corn  and  wine  : 
There  are  golden  fields  where  they  may  live, 

But  the  forest  shades  are  mine. 

The  eagle  hath  its  place  of  rest, 

The  wild-horse  where  to  dwell ; 
And  the  Spirit  that  gave  the  bird  its  nest, 

Made  me  a  home  as  well. 
Then  back,  go  back  from  the  red-man's  track, 

For  the  hunter's  eye  grows  dim 
To  find  that  the  white  man  wrongs  the  one 

Who  never  did  harm  to  him. 


(361) 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  FRIEND. 

No  sable  pall,  no  waving  plume, 
No  thousand  torch-lights  to  illume ; 
No  parting  glance,  no  struggling  tear, 
Is  seen  to  fall  upon  the  bier. 

There  is  not  one  of  kindred  clay, 

To  watch  the  coffin  on  its  way  ; 

No  mortal  form,  no  human  breast, 

Cares  where  the  poor  man's  bones  may  rest. 

But  one  deep  mourner  follows  there, 
Whose  grief  outlives  the  funeral  prayer : 
He  does  not  sigh,  he  does  not  weep, 
But  will  not  leave  the  sodless  heap. 

No  !  he  who  was  the  poor  man's  mate, 
And  made  him  more  content  with  fate  — 
The  old  gray  dog  that  shared  his  crust, 
Is  all  that  stands  beside  his  dust 

He  bends  his  listening  head,  as  though 
He  thought  to  hear  a  voice  below  ; 
He  pines  to  miss  that  voice  so  kind, 
And  wonders  why  he's  left  behind. 

The  sun  goes  down,  the  night  is  come 
He  needs  no  food,  he  seeks  no  home, 
But,  stretched  upon  the  dreamless  bed, 
With  doleful  howl  calls  back  the  dead. 

31 


362  COOK'S- POEMS. 

The  passing  gaze  may  coldly  dwell 
On  all  that  polished  marbles  tell, 
For  temples  built  on  churchyard  earth 
Are  claimed  by  riches  more  than  worth. 

But  who  would  mark  with  undimmed  eyes, 
The  mourning  dog  that  starves  and  dies  ? 
Who  would  not  ask,  who  would  not  crave, 
Such  love  and  faith  to  guard  his  grave  ? 


HARVEST   SONG. 

I  LOVE,  I  love  to  see 

Bright  steel  gleam  through  the  land; 
'Tis  a  goodly  sight,  but  it  must  be 

In  the  reaper's  tawny  hand. 

The  helmet  and  the  spear 

Are  twined  with  laurel  wreath  ; 

But  the  trophy  is  wet  with  the  orphan's 
And  blood-spots  rest  beneath. 

I  love  to  see  the  fiejd 

That  is  moist  with  purple  stain ; 
But  not  where  bullet,  sword,  and  shield, 

Lie  strown  with  the  gory  slain. 

No,  no  :  'tis  when  the  sun 

Shoots  down  his  cloudless  beams, 


COOK'S  POEMS. 

Till  the  rich  and  bursting  juice-drops  run 
On  the  vineyard  earth  in  streams. 

My  glowing  heart  beats  high 

At  the  sight  of  shining  gold ; 
But  it  is  not  that  which  the  miser's  eye 

Delighteth  to  behold. 

A  brighter  wealth  by  far 

Than  the  deep  mine's  yellow  vein, 
Is  seen  around,  in  the  fair  hills  crowned 

With  sheaves  of  burnished  grain. 

Look  forth,  ye  toiling  men ; 

Though  little  ye  possess, 
Be  glad  that  dearth  is  not  on  earth, 

To  leave  that  little  less. 

Let  the  song  of  praise  be  poured, 

In  gratitude  and  joy, 
By  the  rich  man,  with  his  garners  stored, 

And  the  ragged  gleaner  boy. 

The  feast  that  warfare  gives 

Is  not  for  one  alone  — 
'Tis  shared  by  the  meanest  slave  that  lives, 

And  the  tenant  of  a  throne. 

Then  glory  to  the  steel 

That  shines  in  the  reaper's  hand , 
And  thanks  to  God,  who  has  blessed  the  sod, 

And  crowns  the  harvest  land  1 


(364) 


SONG  OF  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POVERTY. 

A  SONG,  a  song,  for  the  beldame  Queen, 
A  Queen  that  the  world  knows  well, 

Whose  portal  of  state  is  the  workhouse  gate, 
And  throne  the  prison  cell. 

I  have  been  crowned  in  every  land, 

With  nightshade  steeped  in  tears, 
I've  a  dog-gnawn  bone  for  my  sceptre  wand 

Which  the  proudest  mortal  fears. 

No  gem  I  wear  in  my  tangled  hair, 

No  golden  vest  I  own, 
No  radiant  glow  tints  cheek  or  brow, 

Yet  say,  who  dares  my  frown  ? 

Oh !  I  am  Queen  of  a  ghastly  court, 

And  tyrant  sway  I  hold, 
Baiting  human  hearts  for  my  royal  sport 

With  the  bloodhounds  of  Hunger  and  Cold. 

My  power  can  change  the  purest  clay 

From  its  first  and  beautiful  mould, 
Till  it  hideth  from  the  face  of  day, 

Too  hideous  to  behold. 

Mark  ye  the  wretch  who  has  cloven  and  cleft 

The  skull  of  the  lonely  one, 
And  quailed  not  at  purpling  his  blade  to  the  heft, 

To  make  sure  that  the  deed  was  done  : 


COOK'S  POEMS.  365 

| 

Fair  seeds  were  sown  in  his  infant  breast, 

That  held  goodly  blossom  and  fruit, 
But  I  trampled  them  down  —  Man  did  the  rest  — 

And  God's  image  grew  into  the  brute. 
| 

He  hath  been  driven,  and  hunted,  and  scourged, 

For  the  sin  I  bade  him  do, 
He  hath  wrought  the  lawless  work  I  urged 

Till  blood  seemed  fair  to  his  view. 

I  shriek  with  delight  to  see  him  bedight 
•    In  fetters  that  chink  and  gleam, 
"  He  is  mine  !  "  I  shout  as  they  lead  him  out, 
From  the  dungeon  to  the  beam. 

See  the  lean  boy  clutch  his  rough-hewn  crutch, 

With  limbs  all  warped  and  worn, 
While  hurries  along  through  a  noisy  throng, 

The  theme  of  their  gibing  scorn. 

Wealth  and  care  would  have  reared  him  straight 

As  the  towering  mountain  pine, 
But  I  nursed  him  into  that  halting  gait, 

And  withered  his  marrowless  spine. 

Pain  may  be  heard  on  the  downy  bed, 

Heaving  the  groan  of  despair, 
For  Suffering1  shuns  not  the  diademed  head, 

And  abideth  everywhere. 

But  the  shortened  breath  and  parching  lip 

Are  watched  by  many  an  eye, 
And  there  is  balmy  drink  to  sip, 

And  tender  hands  to  ply. 


366  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Come,  come  with  me,  and  ye  shall  see 

What  a  child  of  mine  can  bear, 
Where  squalid  shadows  thicken  the  light, 

And  foulness  taints  the  air. 

He  lieth  alone  to  gasp  and  moan, 

While  the  cancer  eats  his  flesh, 
With  the  old  rags  festering  on  his  wound, 

For  none  will  give  him  fresh. 

Oh,  carry  him  forth  in  a  blanket  robe, 

The  lazar  house  is  nigh, 
The  careless  hand  shall  cut  and  probe, 

And  strangers  see  him  die. 

Where's  the  escutcheon  of  blazoned  worth  ? 

Who  is  heir  to  the  famed  rich  man  ? 
Ha !  ha !  he  is  mine  —  dig  a  hole  in  the  earth, 

And  hide  him  as  soon  as  ye  can. 

Oh,  I  am  Queen  of  a  ghastly  Court, 

And  the  handmaiJs  that  I  keep 
Are  such  phantom  things  as  Fever  brings 

To  haunt  the  fitful  sleep. 

See,  see,  they  come  in  my  haggard  train, 

With  jagged  and  matted  locks 
Hanging  round  them  as  rough  as  the  wild  steed's  inane, 

Or  the  black  weed  on  the  rocks. 

They  come  with  broad  and  horny  palms, 

They  come  in  maniac  guise, 
With  angled  chins,  and  yellow  skins, 

And  hollow  staring  eyes. 


COOK'S  POEMS.  367 

They  come  to  be  girded  with  leather  and  link, 

And  away  at  my  bidding  they  go, 
To  toil  where  the  soulless  beast  would  shrink, 

In  the  deep,  damp  caverns  below. 

Daughters  of  beauty,  they,  like  ye, 

Are  of  gentle  womankind, 
And  wonder  not  if  little  there  be, 

Of  angel  form  and  mind. 

If  I'd  held  your  cheeks  by  as  close  a  pinch, 
Would  that  flourishing  rose  be  found  ? 

If  I'd  doled  you  a  crust  out,  inch  by  inch, 
Would  your  arms  have  been  so  round  ? 

Oh,  I  am  Queen  with  a  despot  rule, 

That  crushes'to  the  dust ; 
The  laws  I  deal,  -bear  no  appeal, 

Though  ruthless  and  unjust. 

I  deaden  the  bosom  and  darken  the  brain, 
With  the  might  of  the  demon's  skill ; 

The  heart  may  struggle,  but  struggle  in  vain, 
As  I  grapple  it  harder  still. 

Oh,  come  with  me,  and  ye  shall  see 

How  well  I  begin  the  day, 
For  I'll  hie  to  the  hungriest  slave  I  have, 

And  snatch  his  loaf  away. 

Oh,  come  with  me,  and  ye  shall  see 

How  my  skeleton  victims  fall ; 
How  I  order  the  graves  without  a  stone. 

And  the  coffins  without  a  pall. 


368  COOK'S  POEMS. 

Then  a  song1,  a  song  for  the  beldame  Queen  — 
A  Queen  that  ye  fear  right  well ; 

For  my  portal  of  state  is  the  workhouse  gate, 
And  my  throne  the  prison  cell. 


THE  OLD  MILL-STREAM. 

i 

BEAUTIFUL  streamlet !  how  precious  to  me 
Was  the  green-swarded  paradise  watered  by  thee ; 
I  dream  of  thee  still,  as  thou  wert  in  my  youth, 
Thy  meanderings  haunt  me  with  freshness  and  truth. 

I  had  heard  of  full  many  a  river  of  fame, 
With  its  wide-rolling  flood  and  its  classical  name ; 
But  the  Thames  of  Old  England,  the  Tiber  of  Rome, 
Could  not  peer  with  the  mill-streamlet  close  to  my  home. 

Full  well  I  remember  the  gravelly  spot, 
Where  I  slyly  repaired,  though  I  knew  I  ought  not; 
Where  I  stood  with  my  handful  of  pebbles  to  make 
That  formation  of  fancy,  a  duck  and  a  drake. 

How  severe  was  the  scolding,  how  heavy  the  threat, 
When  my  pinafore  hung  on  me  dirty  and  wet ! 
How  heedlessly  silent  I  stood  to  be  told 
Of  the  danger  of  drowning,  the  risk  of  a  cold ! 

"  Now  mark ! "  cried  a  mother,  "  the  mischief  done  there 
Is  unbearable  —  go  to  that  stream  if  you  dare ; 


COOKS    POEMS.  369 

But  I  sped  to  that  stream  like  a  frolicsome  colt, 
For  I  knew  that  her  thunder-cloud  carried  no  bolt 

Though  puzzled  with  longitude,  adverb,  and  noun, 
Till  my  forehead  was  sunk  in  a  studious  frown ; 
Yet  that  stream  was  a  Lethe  that  swept  from  my  soul 
The  grammar,  the  globes,  and  the  tutor's  control. 

I  wonder  if  still  the  young  anglers  begin, 
As  I  did,  with  willow-wand,  packthread,  and  pin ; 
When  I  threw  in  my  line,  with  expectancy  high 
As  to  perch  in  my  basket  and  eels  in  a  pie. 

When  1  watched  every  bubble  that  broke  on  a  weed, 
Yet  found  I  caught  nothing  but  lily  and  reed ; 
Till  time  and  discernment  began  to  instil 
The  manoeuvres  of  Walton  with  infinite  skill. 

Full  soon  I  discovered  the  birch-shadowed  place 
That  nurtured  the  trout  and  the  silver-backed  dace  ; 
Where  the  coming  of  night  found  me  blest  and  content, 
With  my  patience  unworn  and  my  fishing-rod  bent 

How  fresh  were  the  flags  on  the  stone-studded  ridge, 
That  rudely  supported  the  narrow  oak  bridge  ! 
And  that  bridge,  oh  !  how  boldly  and  safely  I  ran 
On  the  thin  plank  that  now  I  should  timidly  scan ! 

I  traversed  it  often  at  fall  of  the  night, 

When  the  clouds  of  December  shut  out  the  moon's 

light; 

A  mother  might  tremble,  but  I  never  did, 
For  my  footing  was  sure,  though  the  pale  stars  were 

hid, 


370  COOK'S  ror.r.is. 

When  the  breath  of  stern  winter  had  fettered  the  tide. 
What  joy  to  career  on  its  feet-warming  slide  ; 
With  mirth  in  each  eye  and  bright  health  on  each  cheek, 
While  the  gale  in  our  faces  came  piercing  and  bleak ! 

The  snow-flakes  fell  fast  on  our  wind-roughened  curls, 
But  we  laughed  as  we  shook  off  the  feathery  pearls  ; 
And  the  running,  the  tripping,  the  pull  and  the  haul 
Had  a  glorious  end  in  the  slip  and  the  sprawl. 

Oh!  I  loved  the  wild  place  where  clear  ripples  flowed 
On  their  serpentine  way  o'er  the  pebble-strewn  road, 
Where,  mounted  on  Dobbin,  we  youngsters  would  dash, 
Both  pony  and  rider  enjoying  the  splash. 

How  often  I  tried  to  teach  Pincher  the  tricks 
Of  diving  for  pebbles  and  swimming  for  sticks  ! 
But  my  doctrines  could  never  induce  the  loved  brute 
To  consider  hydraulics  a  pleasant  pursuit. 

Did  a  forcible  argument  sometimes  prevail, 
What  a  woful  expression  was  seen  in  his  tail ; 
And  though  bitterly  vexed,  I  was  made  to  agree 
That  Dido,  the  spaniel,  swam  better  than  he. 

What  pleasure  it  was  to  spring  forth  in  the  sun 
When  the  school-door  was  ope'd  and  our  lessons  were 

done ; 
When  "  Where  shall  we  play  ?  "  was  the  doubt  and  the 

call, 
And  "  Down  by  the  mill-stream  "  was  echoed  by  all ; 

When  tired  of  childhood's  rude  boisterous  pranks, 
We  pulled  the  tall  rushes  that  grew  on  its  banks  • 


COOK'S  POEMS.  371 

And,  busily  quiet,  we  sat  ourselves  down 

To  weave  the  rough  basket  or  plait  the  light  crown. 

I  remember  the  launch  of  our  fairy-built  ship, 
How  \ve  set  her  white  sails,  pulled  her  anchor  atrip  ; 
Till  mischievous  hands,  working  hard  at  the  craft, 
Turned  the  ship  to  a  boat,  and  the  boat  to  a  raft. 

The  first  of  my  doggerel  breathings  was  there, 
'Twas  the  hope  of  a  poet,  "  An  Ode  to  Despair." 
I  won't  vouch  for  its  metre,  its  sense,  or  its  rhyme, 
But  I  know  that  I  then  thought  it  truly  sublime. 

Beautiful  streamlet !  I  dream  of  thee  still, 

Of  thy  pouring  cascade,  and  the  tic-tac-ing  mill ; 

Thou  livest  in  memory,  and  wilt  not  depart, 

For  thy  waters  seem  blent  with  the  streams  of  my  heart. 

Home  of  my  youth !  if  I  go  to  thee  now, 
None  can  remember  my  voice  or  my  brow ; 
None  can  remember  the  sunny-faced  child, 
That  played  by  the  water-mill  joyous  and  wild. 

The  aged,  who  laid  their  thin  hands  on  my  head 
To  smooth  my  dark  shining  curls,  rest  with  the  dead ; 
The  young,  who  partook  of  my  sports  and  my  glee. 
Can  see  naught  but  a  wandering  stranger  in  me. 

Beautiful  streamlet !  I  sought  thee  again, 
But  the  changes  that  marked  thee  awakened  deep  pain, 
Desolation  had  reigned,  thou  wert  not  as  of  yore  — 
Home  of  my  childhood,  Fll  see  thee  no  more  J 


,372) 

OLD  STORY  BOOKS. 

OLD*story  books !  old  story  books  !  we  owe  ye  much, 

old  friends, 
Bright-colored  threads  in  Memory's  warp,  of  which 

Death  holds  the  ends. 
Who  can  forget  ye  ?  —  who  can  spurn  the  ministers  of 

joy 

That  waited  on  the  lisping  girl  and  petticoated  boy  ? 
I  know  that  ye  could  win  my  heart  when  every  bribe 

or  threat 
Failed  to  allay  my  stamping  rage,  or  break  my  sullen 

pet: 
A  "  promised  story  "  was  enough — I  turned  with  eager 

smile, 
To  learn  about  the  naughty  "  pig  that  would  not  mount 

the  stile." 


There  was  a  spot  in  days  of  yore  whereon  I  used  to 

stand, 
With  mighty  question  in  my  head  and  penny  in  my 

hand  ; 
Where  motley  sweets  and  crinkled  cakes  made  up  a 

goodly  show, 
And  "  story  books  "  upon  a  string,  appeared  in  brilliant 

row. 
What  should  I  have  ?  the  peppermint  was  incense  in 

my  nose, 
But  I  had  heard  of  "  he*o  Jack "  who  slew  his  giant 

foes: 


COOK  S    POEMS.  373 

My  lonely  coin  was  balanced  long  before  the  tempting 

stall, 
'Twixt  book  and  bull's  eye,  but,  forsooth !  "  Jack  "  got 

it  after  all. 

Talk  of  your  "  vellum,  gold  embossed,"  "  morocco," 
"roan,"  and  "calf," 

The  blue  and  yellow  wraps  of  old  were  prettier  by 
half: 

And  as  to  pictures  !  well  we  know  that  never  one  was 
made 

Like  that  where  "  Bluebeard  "  swings  aloft  his  wife-de 
stroying  blade. 

"  Hume's  England  !  " —  pshaw  !  what  history  of  bat 
tles,  states  and  men 

Can  vie  with  Memoirs  "  all  about  sweet  little  Jenny 
Wren  ?  " 

And  what  are  all  the  wonders  that  e'er  struck  a  nation 
dumb, 

To  those  recorded  as  performed  by  "  Master  Thomas 
Thumb  ?  " 

"  Miss  Riding  Hood,"  poor  luckless  child !  my  heart 
grew  big  with  dread, 

When  the  grirn  "  wolf,"  in  grandmamma's  best  bonnet, 
showed  his  head ; 

I  shuddered  when,  in  innocence,  she  meekly  peeped 
beneath, 

And  made  remarks  about  "  great  eyes,"  and  wondered 
at  "  great  teeth." 

And  then  the  "  House  that  Jack  built,"  and  the  "  Bean 
stalk  Jack  cut  down," 

And  "  Jack's  eleven  brothers,"  on  their  travels  of  re 
nown 


374  COOK'S  I»OEMS. 

And  "Jack,"  whose  cracked  and  plastered  head  insured 

him  lyric  fame, 
These,  these,  methinks,  make  "  vulgar  Jack  "  a  rather 

classic  name. 

I 

Fair  "  Valentine,"  I  loved  him  well ;    but,  better  still 

the  bear 
That  hugged  his  brother  in  her  arms  with  tenderness 

and  care. 
I  lingered  spell-bound  o'er  the  page,  though  even-tide 

wore  late, 
And  left  my  supper  all  untouched  to  fathom  *'  Orson's  " 

fate. 
Then  "  Robin  with  his  merry  men,"  a  noble  band  were 

they, 
We'll  never  see  the  like  again,  go  hunting  where  we 

may. 
In  Lincoln  garb,  with  bow  and  barb,  rapt  Fancy  bore 

me  on, 
Through    Sherwood's   dewy   forest-paths,   close   after 

"  Little  John." 

"  Miss  Cinderella "  and  her  "  shoe  "  kept  long  their 
reigning  powers, 

Till  harder  words  and  longer  themes  beguiled  my  fly 
ing  hours  ; 

And  "Sinbad,"  wondrous  sailor  he,  allured  me  on  hia 
track, 

And  set  me  shouting  when  he  flung  the  old  man  from 
his  back. 

And  oh  !  that  tale — the  matchless  tale,  that  made  me 
dream  at  night 

Of  "  Crusoe's  "  shaggy  robe  of  fur,  and  "  Friday's  * 
death-spurred  flight  ^ 


COOK'S  POEMS.  375 

Nay,  still  I  read  it,  and  again,  in  sleeping  visions,  see 
The  savage  dancers  on  the  sand  —  the  raft  upon  the 
sea. 

Old  story  books  !  old  story  books !  I  doubt  if  "  Reason's 

Feast" 
Provides  a  dish  that  pleases  more  than  "  Beauty  and 

the  Beast ; " 
I  doubt  if  all  the  Ledger-leaves  that  bear  a  sterling 

sum, 
Yield  happiness  like  those  that  told  of  "  Master  Hor- 

ner's  plum." 

Old  story  books  !  old  story  books !  I  never  pass  ye  by 
Without  a  sort  of  furtive  glance  —  right  loving,  though 

'tis  sly ; 
And  fair  suspicion   may   arise  —  that  yet  my   spirit 

grieves 
For  dear  "  Old  Mother  Hubbard's  Dog  "  and  "  All  Ba- 

ba's  Thieves." 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


MISS    LANDON. 


A      NEW      EDITION. 


BOSTON : 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON,    &    CO., 

110  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1854. 


379) 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ROSALIE. 

'Tis  a  wild  tale — and  sad,  too,  as  the  sigh 

That  young1  lips  breathe  when  Love's  first  dreaminga 

fly: 

When  blights  and  cankerworms,  and  chilling  showers, 
Come  withering  o'er  the  warm  heart's  passion-flowers. 
Love !  gentlest  spirit !  I  do  tell  of  thee, — 

Of  all  thy  thousand  hopes,  thy  many  fears, 

Thy  morning  blushes,  and  thy  evening  tears  ; 
What  thou  hast  ever  been,  and  still  will  be, 
Life's  best,  but  most  betraying  witchery  ! 

It  is  a  night  of  summer, — and  the  sea 
Sleeps,  like  a  child,  in  mute  tranquility. 
Soft  o'er  the  deep-blue  wave  the  moonlight  breaks  ; 

Gleaming,  from  out  the  white  clouds  of  its  zone, 
Like  beauty's  changeful  smile,  when  that  it  seeks 

Some  face  it  loves,  yet  fears  to  dwell  upon. 
The  waves  are  motionless,  save  where  the  oar, 

Light  as  Love's  anger,  and  as  quickly  gone, 
Has  broken  in  upon  their  azure  sleep. 

Odors  are  on  the  air :  —  the  gale  has  been 
Wandering  in  groves  where  the  rich  roses  weep,— 
Where  orange,  citron,  and  the  soft  lime-flowers 
Shed  forth  their  fragrance  to  night's  dewy  hours. 


3bU  LANDON'S   POEMS. 

Afar  the  distant  city  meets  the  gaze, 

Where  tower  and  turret  in  the  pale  light  shine, 

Seen  like  the  monuments  of  other  days  — 

Monuments  time  half  shadows,  half  displays. 

And  there  are  many,  who,  with  witching  song 
And  wild  guitar's  soul-thrilling  melody, 

Or  the  lute's  melting  music,  float  along 
O'er  the  blue  waters,  still  and  silently. 

That  night  had  Naples  sent  her  best  display     . 

Of  young  and  gallant,  beautiful  and  gay. 

There  was  a  bark  a  little  way  apart 

From  all  the  rest,  and  there  two  lovers  leant :  — 
One  with  a  blushing  cheek  and  beating  heart, 

And  bashful  glance,  upon  the  sea- wave  bent; 

She  might  not  meet  the  gaze  the  other  sent 
Upon  her  beauty  ;  —  but  the  half-breathed  sighs 
The  deepening  color,  timid  smiling  eyes, 
Told  that  she  listened  Love's  sweet  flatteries. 
Then  they  were  silent :  —  words  are  little  aid 
To  love,  whose  deepest  vows  are  ever  made 
By  the  heart's  beat  alone.     O,  silence  is 
Love's  own  peculiar  eloquence  of  bliss !  — 

Music  swept  past :  —  it  was  a  simple  tone  ; 

But  it  has  wakened  heartfelt  sympathies  ;  — 
It  has  brought  into  life  things  past  and  gone ; 

Has  wakened  all  those  secret  memories, 
That  may  be  smothered,  but  that  still  will  be 
Present  within  thy  soul,  young  Rosalie ! 
The  notes  had  roused  an  answering  chord  within : 
In  other  days,  that  song  her  vesper  hymn  had  been 
Her  altered  look  is  pale  :  —  that  dewy  eye 

Almost  belies  the  smile  her  rich  lips  wear ;  — 


LAWDON'S  POEMS.  381 

. 

That  smile  is  mocked  by  a  scarce-breathing  sigh 
Which  tells  of  silent  and  suppressed  care — 
Tells  that  the  life  is  withering  with  despair, 

More  irksome  from  its  unsunned  silentness — 
A  festering  wound  the  spirit  pines  to  bear; 

A  galling  chain,  whose  pressure  will  intrude, 

Fettering  Mirth's  step,  and  Pleasure's  lightest  mood. 

Where  are  her  thoughts  thus  wandering  ! — A  spot, 

Now  distant  far,  is  pictured  on  her  mind, — 
A  chestnut  shadowing  a  low  white  cot, 

With  rose  and  jasmine  round  the  casement  twined, 

Mixed  with  the  myrtle-tree's  luxuriant  blind, 
Alone,  (O !  should  such  solitude  be  here  ?) 

An  aged  form  beneath  the  shade  reclined, 
Whose  eye  glanced  round  the  scene  —  and  then  a  teai 

Told  that  she  missed  one  in  her  heart  enshrined ! 
Then  came  rememberances  of  other  times, 

When  eve  oped  her  rich  bowers  for  the  pale  day ; 
When  the  faint,  distant  tones  of  convent  chimes 
Were  answered  by  the  lute  and  vesper  lay  ;  — 
When  the  fond  mother  blest  her  gentle  child, 
And  for  her  welfare  prayed  the  Virgin  mild. 
And  she  has  left  the  aged  one  to  steep 

Her  nightly  couch  with  tears  for  that  lost  child, — 
The  Rosalie, — who  left  her  age  to  weep, 

When  that  the  tempter  flattered  her  and  wiled 

Her  steps  away,  from  her  own  home  beguiled. 
She  started  up  in  agony: — her  eye 

Met  Manfredi's.     Softly  he  spoke,  and  smiled. 
Memory  is  past,  and  thought  and  feeling  lie 
Lost  in  one  dream — all  thrown  on  one  wild  die. 
They  floated  o'er  the  waters,  till  the  moon 
Looked  from  the  blue  sky  in  her  zenith  noon, — 


382  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

T 

Till  each  glad  bark  at  length  had  sought  the  shore, 
And  the  waves  echoed  to  the  lute  no  more ; 
Then  sought  their  gay  palazzo,  where  the  ray 
Of  lamps  shed  light  only  less  bright  than  day ; 
And  there  they  feasted  till  the  morn  did  fling 
Her  blus'.ies  o'er  their  mirth  and  revelling. 

And  life  was  as  a  tale  of  faerie, — 
As  when  some  Eastern  geni  rears  bright  bowers, 
And  spreads  the  green  turf  and  the  colored  flowers ; 

And  calls  upon  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  sky, 
To  yield  their  treasures  for  some  gentle  queen, 
Whose  reign  is  over  the  enchanted  scene. 
And  Rosalie  had  pledged  a  magic  cup — 

The  maddening  cup  of  pleasure  and  of  love ! 
There  was  for  her  one  only  dream  on  earth  ! 

There  was  for  her  one  only  star  above  ! — 
She  bent  in  passionate  idolatry 
Before  her  heart's  sole  idol — Manfredi ! 


II. 

j 

'Tis  night  again — a  soft  and  summer  night ; — 

A  deep-blue  heaven,  white  clouds,  moon  and  starlight; 

So  calm,  so  beautiful,  that  human  eye 

Might  weep  to  look  on  such  a  tranquil  sky : — 

A  night  just  formed  for  Hope's  first  dream  of  bliss, 

Or  for  Love's  yet  more  perfect  happiness ! 

The  moon  is  o'er  a  grove  of  cypress  trees, 

Weeping,  like  mourners,  in  the  plaining  breeze  ; 

Echoing  the  music  of  a  rill,  whose  song 

Glided  so  sweetly,  but  so  sad,  along. 

There  is  a  little  chapel  in  the  shade, 

Where  many  a  pilgrim  has  knelt  down  and  prayed 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  383 

To  the  sweet  saint,  whose  portrait,  o'er  the  shrine, 
The  painter's  skill  has  made  all  but  divine. 
It  was  a  pale,  a  melancholy  face, — 

A  cheek  which  bore  the  trace  of  frequent  tears, 
And  worn  by  grief, — though  grief  might  not  efface 

The  seal  that  beauty  set  in  happier  years  ; 
And  such  a  sruile  as  on  the  brow  appears 

Of  one  whose  earthly  thoughts,  long  since  subdued 
Past  this  life's  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears — 

The  wordly  dreams  o'er  which  the  many  brood. — 
The  heart-beat  hushed  in  mild  and  chastened  mood. 
It  was  the  image  of  the  maid  who  wept 

Those  precious  tears  that  heal  and  purify. 
Love  yet  upon  her  lip  his  station  kept, 

But  heaven  and  heavenly  thoughts  were  in  her  eye. 
One  knelt  before  the  shrine,  with  cheek  as  pale 

As  was  the  cold  white  marble.     Gan  this  be 

The  young — the  loved — the  happy  Rosalie  ? 
Alas !  alas  !  hers  is  a  common  tale : — 
She  trusted, — as  youth  ever  has  believed  ; — 
She  heard  Love's  vows — confided — was  deceived ! 


Oh,  Love  !  thy  essence  is  thy  purity ! 

Breathe  one  unhallowed  breath  upon  thy  flame, 
And  it  is  gone  forever, — and  hut  leaves 

A  sullied  vase — its  pure  light  lost  in  shame'! 

And  Rosalie  was  loved, — not  with  that  pure 
And  holy  passion  which  can  age  endure  ; 
But  loved  with  wild  and  self-consuming  fires, — 
A  torch  which  glares — and  scorches — and  expires. 
A  little  while  her  dream  of  bliss  remained, — 
A  little  while  Love's  wings  were  left  unchained. 


384  LANDO.\'d    POEMS. 

But  change  came  o'er  the  trusted  Manfred! : 
His  heart  fo^'ot  its  vowed  idolatry  ; 
And  his  forgotj^n  love  was  left  to  brood 
O'er  wrongs  and  ruin  in  her  solitude ! 


How  very  desolate  that  breast  must  be, 

Whose  only  joyance  is  in  memory  ! 

And  what  must  woman  suffer,  thus  betrayed  ! — 

Her  heart's  most  warm  and  precious  feelings  made 

But  things  wherewith  to  wound  :  that  heart — so  weak, 

So  soft — laid  open  to  the  vulture's  beak  ! 

Its  sweet  reveal  ings  given  up  to  scorn 

It  burns  to  bear,  and  yet  that  must  be  borne  ! 

And,  sorer,  still,  that  bitterer  emotion, 

To  know  the  shrine  which  had  our  soul's  devotion 

Is  that  of  a  false  deity ! — to  look 

Upon  the  eyes  we  worshipped,  and  brook 

Their  cold  reply  !     Yet  these  are  all  for  her ! — 

The  rude  world's  outcast,  and  love's  wanderer ! 

Alas  !  that  love,  which  is  so  sweet  a  thing, 

Should  ever  cause  gujjt,  grief,  or  suffering ! 

Yet  she  upon  whose  face  the  sunbeams  fall — 

That  dark-eyed  girl — had  felt  their  bitterest  thrall ! 

She  thought  upon  her  love  ;  and  there  was  not 

In  passion's  record  one  green  sunny  spot — 

It  had  been  all  a  madness  and  a  dream, 

The  shadow  of  a  flower  on  the  stream, 

Which  seems,  but  is  not ;  and  then  memory  turned 

To  her  lone  mother.     How  her  bosom  burned 

With   sweet  and  bitter  thoughts!      There  might  be 

rest— 
The  wounded  dove  will  flee  into  her  nest — 


LANDON'S  POEMS. 


385 


That  mother's  arms  might  fold  her  child  again, 
The  cold  world  scorn,  the  cruel  smite  in  vain, 
And  falsehood  be  remembered  no  more 
In  that  calm  shelter : — and  she  might  weep  o'er 
Her  faults  and  find  forgiveness.     Had  not  she 

To  whom  she  knelt  found  pardon  in  the  eyes 

Of  Heaven,  in  offering  for  sacrifice 
A  broken  heart  ?     And  might  not  pardon  be 
Also  for  her  ?     She  looked  up  to  the  face 

Of  that  pale  saint ;  and  in  that  gentle  brow, 
Which  seemed  to  hold  communion  with  her  thought, 

There  was  a  smile  which  gave  hope  energy. 
She  prayed  one  deep,  wild  prayer, — that  she  might  gain 
The  home  she  hoped  ; — then  sought  that  home  again. 

i 

A  flush  of  beauty  is  upon  the  sky — 
Eve's  last  warm  blushes— like  the  crimson  dye 
The  maiden  wears,  when  first  her  dark  eyes  meet 
The  graceful  lover's  sighing  at  her  feet. 
And  there  were  sounds  of  music  on  the  breeze, 
And  perfume  shaken  from  the  citron  trees  ; 
While  the  dark  chestnuts  caught  a  golden  ray 
On  their  green  leaves,  the  last  bright  gift  of  day ; 
And  peasants  dancing  gayly  in  the  shade 
To  the  soft  mandolin,  whose  light  notes  made 
An  echo  fit  to  the  glad  voices  singing. 
The  twilight  spirit  his  sweet  urn  is  flinging 
Of  dew  upon  the  lime  and  orange  stems, 
And  giving  to  the  rose  pearl  diadems. 

There  is  a  pilgrim  by  that  old  gray  tree, 
With  head  upon  her  hand  bent  mournfully  ; 
And  looking  round  upon  each  lovely  thing, 
And  breathing  the  sweet  air,  as  they  could  bring 


386 


LAND  ON  S    POEMS. 


To  her  no  beauty  and  no  solacing. 

'Tis  Rosalie  !     Her  prayor  was  not  in  vain, 

The  truant-child  has  sought  her  home  again ! 

It  must  be  worth  a  life  of  toil  and  care, — 

Worth  those  dark  chains  the  wearied  one  must  bear 

Who  toils  up  fortune's  steep, — all  that  can  wring 

The  worn-out  bosom  with  lone  suffering, — 

Worth  restlessness,  oppression,  goading  fears, 

And  long-deferred  hopes  of  many  years, — 

To  reach  again  that  little  quiet  spot, 

So  well-loved  once,  and  never  quite  forgot; — 

To  trace  again  the  steps  of  infancy, 

And  catch  their  freshness  from  their  memory ' 

And  it  is  triumph,  sure,  when  fortune's  sun 

Has  shone  upon  us,  and  our  task  is  done, 

To  show  our  harvest  to  the  eyes  which  were 

Once  all  the  Avorld  to  us !     Perhaps  there  are 

Some  who  had  presaged  kindly  of  our  youth ; 

Feel  we  not  proud  their  prophecy  was  sooth  ? 

But  how  felt  Rosalie  ? — The  very  air 

Seemed  as  it  brought  reproach !  there  was  no  eye 

To  look  delighted,  welcome  none  was  there ! 
She  felt  as  feels  an  outcast  wandering  by 

Where  every  door  is  closed  !     She  looked  around ! — 

She  heard  some  voices'  sweet  familiar  sound. 

There   were   some   changed,   and   some   remembered 
things  ; 

There  were  girls,  whom  she  left  in  their  first  springs, 

Now  blushed  into  full  beauty.     There  was  one 

Whom  she  loved  tenderly  in  days  now  gone ! 

She  was  not  dancing  gayly  with  the  rest ; 

A  rose-cheeked  child  within  her  arms  was  prest  • 

| 
I 
I 


LANDOJJ'S   POEMS.  387 

And  it  had  twined  its  small  hands  in  the  hair 
That  clustered  o'er  its  mother's  brow :  as  fair 
As  buds  in  spring.     She  gave  her  laughing  dove 
To  one  who  clasped  it  with  a  father's  love ; 
And  if  a  painter's  eye  had  sought  a  scene 
Of  love  in  its  most  perfect  loveliness — 
Of  childhood,  and  of  wedded  happiness,- 
He  would  have  painted  the  sweet  Madeline ! 
But  Rosalie  shrank  from  them,  and  she  strayed 
Through  a  small  grove  of  cypresses,  whose  shade 
Hung  o'er  a  burying-ground,  where  the  low  stone 
And  the  gray  cross  recorded  those  now  gone ! 
There  was  a  grave  just  closed.     Not  one  seemed  near 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  one  long — last  tear ! 
How  very  desolate  must  that  one  be 
Whose  more  than  grave  has  not  a  memory ! 

Then  Rosalie  thought  on  her  mother's  age, —  , 
Just  such  her  end  would  be  with  her  away : 

No  child  the  last  cold  death-pang  to  assuage — 
No  child  by  her  neglected  tomb  to  pray ! 

She  asked — and  like  a  hope  from  heaven  it  came  ? — 

To  hear  them  answer  with  a  stranger's  name. 

She  reached  her  mother's  cottage  ;  by  that  gate 
She  thought  how  her  once  lover  wont  to  wait 
To  tell  her  honeyed  tales ;  and  then  she  thought 
On  all  the  utter  ruin  he  had  wrought ! 
The  moon  shone  brightly,  as  it  used  to  do 
Ere  youth,  and  hope,  and  love,  had  been  untrue ; 
But  it  shone  o'er  the  desolate !     The  flowers 
Were  dead  ;  the  faded  jessamine,  unbound, 
Trailed,  like  a  heavy  weed,  upon  the  ground; 


388  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

And  fell  the  moonlight  vainly  over  trees, 

Which  had  not  even  one  rose, — although  the  breeze, 

Almost  as  if  in  mockery,  had  brought 

Sweet  tones  it  from  the  nightingale  had  caught! 

She  entered  in  the  cottage.     None  were  there ! 

The  hearth  was  dark, —  the  walls  looked  cold  and  bare ! 

All — all  spoke  poverty  and  suffering  ! 

All — all  was  changed !  and  but  one  only  thing 

Kept  its  old  place  !     Rosalie's  mandolin 

Hung  on  the  wall,  where  it  had  ever  been. 

There  was  one  other  room, — and  Rosalie    * 

Sought  for  her  mother  there.     A  heavy  flame 

Gleamed  from  a  dying  lamp  ;  a  cold  air  came 

Damp  from  the  broken  casement.     There  one  lay, 

Like  marble  seen  but  by  the  moonlight  ray  ! 

And  Rosalie  drew  near.     One  withered  hand 

Was  stretched,  as  it  would  reach  a  Avretched  stand 

Where  some  cold  water  stood  !     And  by  the  bed 

She  knelt — and  gazed — and  saw  her  mother — dead ! 


•  ••*• .  -  diyfcM^a^^ ~~s^» 


,389) 


THE  BAYADERE. 

AN    INDIAN    TALE. 

THERE  were  seventy  pillars  around  the  hall, 

Of  wreathed  gold  was  each  capital, 

And  the  roof  was  fretted  with  amber  and  gems, 

Such  as  light  kingly  diadems  ; 

The  floor  was  marble,  white  as  the  snow 

Ere  its  pureness  is  stained  by  its  fall  below : 

In  the  midst  played  a  fountain,  whose  starry  showers 

Fell,  like  beams,  on  the  radiant  flowers, 

Whose  colors  were  gleaming,  as  every  one 

Burnt  from  the  kisses  just  caught  from  the  sun  ; 

And  vases  sent  forth  their  silvery  clouds, 

Like  those  which  the  face  of  the  young  moon  shrouida 

But  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  twilight  hour 

When  the  dew  awakens  the  rose's  power. 

At  the  end  of  the  hall  was  a  sun-bright  throne, 

Rich  with  every  glorious  stone  ; 

And  the  purple  canopy  overhead 

Was  like  the  shade  o'er  the  day-fall  shed ; 

And  the  couch  beneath  was  of  buds  half  blown, 

Hued  with  the  blooms  of  the  rainbow's  zone ; 

And  round,  like  festoons,  a  vine  was  rolled, 

Whose  leaf  was  of  emerald,  whose  fruit  was  of  gold. 

But  though  graced  as  for  a  festival, 

There  was  something  sad  in  that  stately  hall : 

There  floated  the  breath  of  the  harp  and  flute, — 

But  the  sweetest  of  every  music  is  mute : 

33* 


390  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

There  are  flowers  of  light,  and  spiced  perfume, — 

But  there  wants  the  sweetest  of  breath  and  of  bloom : 

And  the  hall  is  lone,  and  thp  hall  is  drear, 

For  the  smiling  of  woman  shineth  not  here. 

With  urns  of  odor  o'er  him  weeping, 

Upon  the  couch  a  youth  is  sleeping : 

His  radiant  hair  is  bound  with  stars, 

Such  as  shine  on  the  brow  of  night, 
Filling  the  dome  with  diamond  rays, 

Only  than  his  own  curls  less  bright. 
And  such  a  brow,  and  such  an  eye 
As  fit  a  young  divinity  ; 
A  brow  like  twilight's  darkening  line, 
An  eye  like  morning's  first  sunshine, 
Now  glancing  through  the  veil  of  dreams 
As  sudden  light  at  daybreak  streams. 
And  richer  than  the  mingled  shade 
By  gem,  and  gold,  and  purple  made, 
His  orient  wings  closed  o'er  his  head ; 

Like  that  bird's,  bright  with  every  dye, 
Whose  home,  as  Persian  bards  have  said, 

Is  fixed  in  scented  Araby. 
Some  dream  is  passing  o'er  him  now — 
A  sudden  flash  is  on  his  brow ; 
And  from  his  lip  come  murmured  words, 
Low,  but  sweet  as  the  light  lute  chords 
When  o'er  its  strings  the  night  winds  glide 
To  woo  the  roses  by  its  side. 
He,  the  fair  boy-god,  whose  nest 
Is  in  the  water-lily's  breast ; 
He  of  the  many-arrowed  bow, 
Of  the  joys  that  come  and  go 
Like  the  leaves,  and  of  the  sighs 
Like  the  winds  of  summer  skies, 


LANDOJN'S  POEMS.  391 

Blushes  like  the  birds  of  spring, 
Soon  seen  and  soon  vanishing ; 
He  of  hopes,  and  he  of  fears, 
He  of  smiles,  and  he  of  tears — 
Young  Camdeo,  he  has  brought 
A  sweet  dream  of  colored  thought, 
One  of  love  and  woman's  power, 
To  Mandalla's  sleeping  hour. 

Joyless  and  dark  was  his  jewelled  throne, 
When  Mandalla  awakened  and  found  him  alone. 
He  drank  the  perfume  that  around  him  swept, 
'Twas  not  sweet  as  the  sigh  he  drank  as  he  slept ; 
There  was  music,  but  where  was  the  voice  at  whose 

thrill 

Every  pulse  in  his  veins  was  throbbing  still  ? 
And  dim  was  the  home  of  his  native  star, 
While  the  light  of  woman  and  love  was  afar ; 
And  lips  of  the  rosebud,  and  violet  eyes 
Are  the  sunniest  flowers  in  Paradise. 
He  veiled  the  light  of  his  glorious  race 
In  a  mortal's  form  and  a  mortal's  face ; 
And  'mid  earth's  loveliest  sought  for  one 
Who  might  dwell  in  his  hall  and  share  in  his  throne 

The  loorie  brought  to  his  cinnamon  nest 

The  bee  from  the  midst  of  its  honey  quest, 

And  open  the  leaves  of  the  lotus  lay 

To  welcome  the  noon  of  the  summer  day. 

It  was  glory,  and  light,  and  beauty  all, 

When  Mandalla  closed  his  wing  in  Bengal. 

He  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  stately  square, 

As  the  waves  of  the  sea  rolled  the  thousands  there ; 


392  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Their  gathering  was  round  the  gorgeous  car 

Where  sat  in  his  triumph  the  Subadar ; 

For  his  sabre  was  red  with  the  blood  of  the  slain, 

And  his  proudest  foes  were  slaves  in  his  chain  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  the  sound  of  his  name, 

Rose  in  shouts  from  the  crowd  as  onwards  he  came. 

With  gems  and  gold  on  his  ataghan, 

A  thousand  warriors  led  the  van, 

Mounted  on  steeds  black  as  the  night, 

But  with  foam  and  with  stirrup  gleaming  in  light ; 

And  another  thousand  came  in  their  rear, 

On  white  horses,  armed  with  bow  and  spear, 

With  quivers  of  gold  on  each  shoulder  laid, 

And  with  crimson  belt  for  each  crooked  blade. 

Then  followed  the  foot  ranks, — their  turbans  showed 

Like  flashes  of  light  from  a  mountain  cloud, 

For  white  were  the  turbans  as  winter  snow, 

And  death-black  the  foreheads  that  darkened  below ; 

Scarlet  and  white  was  each  soldier's  vest, 

And  each  bore  a  lion  of  gold  on  his  breast, 

For  this  was  the  chosen  band  that  bore 

The  lion  standard, — it  floated  o'er 

Their  ranks  like  morning  ;  at  every  wave 

Of  that  purple  banner,  the  trumpets  gave 

A  martial  salute  to  the  radiant  fold 

That  bore  the  lion  king  wrought  in  gold. 

And  last  the  elephant  came,  whose  tower 

Held  the  lord  of  this  pomp  and  power: 

And  round  that  chariot  of  his  pride, 

Like  chains  of  white  sea-pearls, 
Or  braids  enwove  of  summer  flowers, 

Glided  fair  dancing  girls  ; 
And  as  the  rose  leaves  fall  to  earth, 

Their  light  feet  touched  the  ground, — 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  393 

But  tor  trie  zone  of  silver  bells 

You  had  not  heard  a  sound, 
As,  scattering  flowers  o'er  the  way, 
Whirled  round  the  beautiful  array. 
But  there  was  one  who  'mid  them  shone 
A  planet  lovely  and  alone, 
A  rose,  one  flower  amid  many, 
But  still  the  loveliest  of  any , 
Though  fair  her  arm  as  the  moonlight, 
Others  might  raise  an  arm  as  white  ; 
Though  light  her  feet  as  music's  fall, 
Others  might  be  as  musical ; 
But  where  were  such  dark  eyes  as  hers  ? 

So  tender,  yet  withal  so  bright, 
As  the  dark  orbs  had  in  their  smile 

Mingled  the  light  of  day  and  night. 
And  where  was  that  wild  grace  which  shed 
A  loveliness  o'er  every  tread, 
A  beauty  shining  through  the  whole, 
Something  which  spoke  of  heart  and  soul. 
The  Almas  had  passed  lightly  on, 
The  armed  ranks,  the  crowd,  were  gone, 
Yet  gazed  Mandalla  on  the  square 
As  she  he  sought  still  glided  there, — 
O  that  fond  look,  whose  eyeballs'  strain, 
And  will  not  know  its  look  in  vain ! 
At  length  he  turned, — his  silent  mood 
Sought  that  impassioned  solitude, 
The  Eden  of  young  hearts,  when  first 
Love  in  its  loneliness  is  nurst. 
He  sat  him  by  a  little  fount ; 

A  tulip-tree  grew  by  its  side, 
A  lily  with  its  silver  towers 

Floated  in  silence  on  the  tide ; 


394  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

And  far  round  a  banana  tree 
Extended  its  green  sanctuary  ; 
And  the  long  grass,  which  was  his  seat, 
With  every  motion  grew  more  sweet, 
Yielding  a  more  voluptuous  scent 
At  every  blade  his  pressure  bent. 
And  there  he  lingered,  till  the  sky 
Lost  somewhat  of  its  brilliancy, 
And  crimson  shadoAvs  rolled  on  the  west, 
And  taised  the  moon  her  diamond  crest, 
And  came  a  freshness  on  the  trees, 
Harbinger  of  the  evening  breeze, 
When  a  sweet  far  sound  of  song, 
Borne  by  the  breath  of  flowers  along, 
A  mingling  of  the  voice  and  lute, 

Such  as  the  wind-harp,  when  it  makes 
Its  pleasant  music  to  the  gale 

Which  kisses  first  the  chords  it  breako 
He  followed  where  the  echo  led, 

Till  in  a  cypress-grove  he  found 
A  funeral  train,  that  round  a  grave 

Poured  forth  their  sorrows'  wailing  sound ; 
And  by  the  tomb  a  choir  of  girls, 

With  measured  steps  and  mournful  notes. 
And  snow-white  robes,  while  on  the  air 
Unbound  their  wreaths,  each  dark  curl  floats, 
Paced  round  and  sang  to  her  who  slept 
Calm,  while  their  young  eyes  o'er  her  wept. 
And  she,  that  loveliest  one,  is  here, 
The  morning's  radiant  Bayadere  : 
A  darker  light  in  her  dark  eyes, — 

For  tears  there  are, — a  paler  brow 
Changed  but  to  charm  the  morning's  smile, 

Less  sparkling,  but  more  touching  now. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  895 

And  first  her  sweet  lip  prest  the  flute, 

A  nightingale  waked  by  the  rose, 
And  when  that  honey  breath  was  mute, 

Was  heard  her  low  song's  plaintive  close, 
Wailing  for  the  young  blossom's  fall, 
The  last,  the  most  beloved  of  all. 
As  died  in  gushing  tears  the  lay 
The  band  of  mourners  passed  away  : 
They  left  their  wreaths  upon  the  tomb, 
As  fading  leaves,  and  long  perfume 
Of  her  were  emblems  ;  and  unbound 
Many  a  cage's  gilded  round, 
And  set  the  prisoners  free,  as  none 
Were  left  to  love  now  she  was  gone, 
And  azure  wings  spread  on  the  air, 

And  songs,  rejoicing  songs,  were  heard ; 
But,  pining  as  forgotten  now, 

Lingered  one  solitary  bird  : 
A  beautiful  and  pearl-white  dove, 
Alone  in  its  remembering  love. 
It  was  a  strange  and  lovely  thing 
To  mark  the  drooping  of  its  wing, 
And  how  into  the  grave  it  prest, 
Till  soiled  the  dark  earth-stain  its,  breast ; 
And  darker  as  the  night-shade  grew, 
Sadder  became  its  wailing  coo, 
As  if  it  missed  the  hand  that  bore, 
As  the  cool  twilight  came,  its  store 
Of  seeds  and  flowers. — There  Avas  one 
Who  like  that  dove,  was  lingering  lone,— 
The  Bayadere  :  her  part  had  been 

Only  the  hired  mourner's  part ; 
But  she  had  given  what  none  might  buy,-  - 

The  precious  sorrow  of  the  heart 


396  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

She  wooed  the  white  dove  to  her  breast ; 

It  sought  at  once  its  place  of  rest : 

Round  it  she  threw  her  raven  hair, — 

It  seemed  to  love  the  gentle  snare, 

And  its  soft  beak  was  raised  to  sip 

The  honey-dew  of  her  red  lip. 

Her  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears,  to  feel 

The  gentle  creature  closer  steal 

Into  her  heart  with  soft  caress, 

As  it  would  thank  her  tenderness  ; 

To  her  'twas  strange  and  sweet  to  be 

Beloved  in  such  fond  purity, 

And  sighed  Mandalla  to  think  that  sin 

Could  dwell  so  fair  a  shrine  within. 

"  O,  grief  to  think  that  she  is  one 

Who  like  the  breeze  is  wooed  and  won ! 

Yet  sure  it  were  a  task  for  love 

To  come  like  dew  of  the  night  from  above 

Upon  her  heart,  and  wash  away, 

Like  dust  from  the  flowers,  its  stain  of  clay 

And  win  her  back  in  her  tears  to  heaven, 

Pure,  loved,  and  humble,  and  forgiven ; 

Yes  !  freed  from  the  soil  of  her  earthly  thrall, 

Her  smile  shall  light  up  my  starry  hall ! " 


The  moonlight  is  on  a  little  bower, 

With  wall  and  with  roof  of  leaf  and  of  flower, 

Built  of  that  green  and  holy  tree 

Which  heeds  not  how  rude  the  storm  may  be. 

Like  a  bridal  canopy  overhead 

The  jasmines  their  slender  wreathings  spread, 

One  with  stars  as  ivory  white, 

The  other  with  clusters  of  amber  light ; 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  397 

Rose -trees  four  grew  by  the  wall, 
Beautiful  each,  but  different  all : 
One  with  that  pure  but  crimson  flush 
That  marks  the  maiden's  first  love-blush ; 
By  its  side  grew  another  one, 
Pale  as  the  snow  of  the  funeral  stone  ; 
The  next  was  rich  with  the  damask  dye 
Of  a  monarch's  purple  drapery  ; 
And  the  last  had  leaves  like  those  leaves  of  gold, 
Worked  on  that  drapery's  royal  fold  ; 
And  there  were  four  vases  with  blossoms  filled, 
Like  censers  of  incense,  their  fragrance  distilled : 
Lilies,  heaped  like  the  pearls  of  the  sea, 
Peeped  from  their  large  leaves'  security  ; 
Hyacinths  with  their  graceful  bells, 
Where  the  spirit  of  odor  dwells 
Like  the  spirit  of  music  in  ocean  shells ; 
And  tulips,  with  every  color  that  shines 
In  the  radiant  gems  of  Serendib's  mines  ; 
One  tulip  was  found  in  every  wreath, 
That  one  most  scorched  by  the  summer's  breath, 
Whose  passionate  leaves  with  their  ruby  glow- 
Hide  the  heart  that  lies  burning  and  black  below : 
And  there,  beneath  the  flowered  shade 
By  a  pink  acacia  made, 
Mandalla  lay,  and  by  his  side, 
With  eyes,  and  breath,  and  blush  that  vied 
With  the  star  and  with  the  flower 
In  their  own  and  loveliest  hour, 
Was  that  fair  Bayadere,  the  dove 

Yet  nestling  in  her  long  black  hair ; 
She  has  now  more  than  that  to  love, 

And  the  loved  one  sat  by  her  there. 
And  by  the  sweet  acacia  porch 

34 


398  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

They  drank  the  softness  of  the  breeze. — 

0  more  than  lovely  are  love's  dreams, 

'Mid  lights  and  blooms  and  airs  like  these ! 
And  sometimes  she  would  leave  his  side, 
And  like  a  spirit  round  him  glide  ; 
A  light  shawl  now  wreathed  round  her  brow, 
Now  waving  from  her  hand  of  snow, 
Now  zoned  around  her  graceful  waist, 
And  now  like  fetters  round  her  placed  ; 
And  then,  flung  suddenly  aside, 
Her  many  curls,  instead,  unbound, 
Waved  in  fantastic  braids,  till  loosed, 
Her  long  dark  tresses  swept  the  ground: 
Then,  changing  from  the  soft  slow  step, 

Her  white  feet  bounded  on  the  wind 
Like  gleaming  silver,  and  her  hair 

Like  a  dark  banner  swept  behind  ; 
Or  with  her  sweet  voice,  sweet  like  a  bird's 

When  it  pours  forth  its  first  song  in  spring1, 
The  one  like  an  echo  to  the  other. 

She  answered  the  sigh  of  her  soft  lute-string. 
And  with  eyes  that  darkened  in  gentlest  tears, 

Like  the  dewy  light  in  the  dark-eyed  dove, 
Would  she  sing  those  sorrowing  songs  that  breathe 

Some  history  of  unhappy  love. 
"  Yes,  thou  art  mine  !  "  Mandalla  said, — 

"  I  have  lighted  up  love  in  thy  youthful  heart ; 

1  taught  thee  its  tenderness,  now  I  must  teach 

Its  faith,  its  grief,  and  its  gloomier  part ; 
And  then,  from  my  earth  stains  purified, 
In  my  star  and  my  hall  shalt  thou  reign  my  bride." 

It  w.as  an  evening  soft  and  fair, 
As  surely  those  in  Eden  are. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  309 

When,  bearing  spoils  of  leaf  and  flower, 
Entered  the  Bayadere  her  bower : 
Her  love  lay  sleeping,  as  she  thought, 
And  playfully  a  bunch  she  caught 
Of  azure  hyacinth  bells,  and  o'er 

His  face  she  let  the  blossoms  fall : 
"Why,  I  am  jealous  of  thy  dreams, 

Awaken  at  thy  Aza's  call." 
No  answer  came  from  him  whose  tone 
Had  been  the  echo  of  her  own. 
She  spoke  again, —  no  words  came  forth ; 

She  clasped  his  hand, — she  raised  his  head,— - 
.  One  wild,  loud  scream,  she  sank  beside, 

As  pale,  as  cold,  almost  as  dead  ! 

By  the  Ganges  raised,  for  the  morning  sun 
To  shed  his  earliest  beams  upon, 
Is  a  funeral  pile, — around  it  stand 
Priests  and  the  hired  mourners'  band. 
But  who  is  she  that  so  wildly  prays 
To  share  the  couch  and  light  the  blaze  ? 
Mandalla's  love,  while  scornful  eye 
And  chilling  jeers  mock  her  agony  ! 
An  Alma  girl !     O  shame,  deep  shame 
To  Brahma's  race  and  Brahma's  name ! 
Unmarked,  unpitied,  she  turned  aside, 
For  a  moment,  her  bursting  tears  to  hide. 
None  thought  of  the  Bayadere,  till  the  fire 
Blazed  redly  and  fiercely  the  funeral  pyre ; 
Then  like  a  thought  she  darted  by, 
And  sprang  on  the  funeral  pile  to  die ! 

"  Now  thou  art  mine  !  away,  away 

To  my  own  bright  star,  to  my  home  of  day ! " 


400  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

A  dear  voice  sighed,  as  he  bore  her  along 
Gently  as  spring  breezes  bear  the  song, 
"  Thy  love  and  thy  faith  have  Avon  for  thee 
The  breath  of  immortality. 
?daid  of  earth,  Mandalla  is  free  to  call 
Aza  the  queen  of  his  heart  and  hall !  " 


LOVE,  HOPE,  AND  BEAUTY. 

LOVE  may  be  increased  by  fears, 

May  be  fanned  with  sighs, 
Nursed  by  fancies,  fed  by  doubts ; 

But  without  Hope  it  dies  ! 
As  in  the  far  Indian  isles 

Dies  the  young  cocoa  tree, 
Unless  within  the  pleasant  shade 

Of  the  parent  plant  it  be ; 
So  Love  may  spring  up  at  first 

Lighted  at  Beauty's  eyes : — 
But  Beauty  is  not  all  its  life, 

For  without  Hope  it  dies. 


V4()1 


LINES   OF   LIFE. 

! 

WELL,  read  my  cheek,  and  watch  my  eye, 
Too  strictly  schooled  are  they 

One  secret  of  my  soul  to  show, 
One  hidden  thought  betray.  . 

I  never  knew  the  time  my  heart 
Looked  freely  from  my  brow ; 

It  once  was  checked  by  timidness, 
'Tis  taught  by  caution  now. 

I! 

I  live  among  the  cold,  the  false, 
And  I  must  seem  like  them  ; 

And  such  I  am,  for  I  am  false 
As  those  I  most  condemn. 

I  teach  my  lip  its  sweetest  smile, 
My  tongue  its  softest  tone : 

I  borrow  others'  likeness,  till 
Almost  I  lose  my  own. 

I  pass  through  flattery's  gilded  sieve, 

Whatever  I  would  say  ; 
In  social  life,  all,  like  the  blind, 

Must  learn  to  feel  their  way. 

I  check  my  thoughts  like  curbed  steeds 
That  struggle  with  the  rein  ; 

I  bid  my  feelings  sleep,  like  wrecks 
In  the  unfathomed  main. 

31* 


402  LAJVDON'S  POEMS. 

I  hear  them  speak  of  love,  the  deep, 
The  true,  and  mock  the  name  ; 

Mock  at  all  high  and  early  truth, 
And  I  too  do  the  same. 

I  hear  them  tell  some  touching  tale, 
I  swallow  down  the  tear; 

I  hear  them  name  some  generous  deed, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  sneer. 

I  hear  the  spiritual,  the  kind, 
The  pure,  but  named  in  mirth ; 

Till  all  of  good,  ay,  even  hope, 
Seems  exiled  from  our  earth. 

And  one  fear,  withering  ridicule, 

Is  all  that  I  can  dread ; 
A  sword  hung  by  a  single  hair 

For  ever  o'er  the  head. 

We  bow  to  a  most  servile  faith, 

In  a  most  servile  fear ; 
While  none  among  us  dares  to  say 

What  none  will  choose  to  hear. 

And  if  we  dream  of  loftier  thoughts, 
In  weakness  they  are  gone  ; 

And  indolence  and  vanity 
Rivet  our  fetters  on. 

Surely  1  was  not  born  for  this  ! 

I  feel  a  loftier  mood 
Of  generous  impulse,  high  resolve, 

Steal  o'er  my  solitude  ! 


I 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  403 

I  gaze  upon  the  thousand  stars 

That  fill  the  midnight  sky  ; 
And  wish,  so  passionately  wish, 

A  light  like  theirs  on  high. 

I  have  such  eagerness  of  hope 

To  benefit  my  kind  ; 
And  feel  as  if  immortal  power 

Were  given  to  my  mind. 

I  think  on  that  eternal  fame, 

The  sun  of  earthly  gloom, 
Which  makes  the  gloriousness  of  death 

The  future  of  the  tomb — 

That  earthly  future,  the  faint  sign 

Of  a  more  heavenly  one; 
— A  step,  a  word,  a  voice,  a  look, — 

Alas  !  my  dream  is  done. 

And  earth,  and  earth's  debasing  stain, 

Again  is  on  my  soul ; 
And  I  am  but  a  nameless  .part 

Of  a  most  worthless  whole. 

Why  write  I  this  ?  because  my  heart 

Towards  the  future  springs. 
That  future  where  it  loves  to  soar 

On  more  than  eagle  wings. 

The  present,  it  is  but  a  speck 

In  that  eternal  time, 
In  which  my  lost  hopes  find  a  home, 

My  spirit  knows  its  clime. 


404  LANDOJS'S    POEMS. 

0  !  not  myself,— for  what  am  I  ? 
The  worthless  and  the  weak, 

Whose  every  thought  of  self  should  raise 
A  blush  to  burn  my  cheek. 

But  song  has  touched  my  lips  with  fire, 
And  made  my  heart  a  shrine 

For  what,  although  alloyed,  debased, 
Is  in  itself  divine. 

1  am  myself  but  a  vile  link 

Amid  life's  weary  chain  ; 
But  I  have  spoken  hallowed  words, 
O  do  not  say  in  vain ! 

My  first,  my  last,  my  only  wish, 
Say  will  my  charmed  chords 

Wake  to  the  morning  light  of  fame, 
And  breathe  again  my  Words  ? 

Will  the  young  maiden,  when  her  tears 
Alone  in  moonlight  shine — 

Tears  for  the^absent  and  the  loved — 
Murmur  some  song  of  mine  ? 

Will  the  pale  youth  by  his  dim  lamp, 

Himself  a  dying  flame, 
From  many  an  antique  scroll  beside, 

Choose  that  which  bears  my  name  ? 

Let  music  make  less  terrible 

The  silence  of  the  dead ; 
I  care  not  so  my  spirit  last 

Long  after  life  has  fled. 


(405) 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE. 


THERE  is  no  change  upon  the  air, 
No  record  in  the  sky : 

The  year  about  to  die. 


A  few  light  clouds  are  on  the  heaven, 

A  few  far  stars  are  bright ; 
And  the  pale  rnoon  shines  as  she  shines 

On  many  a  common  night. 

Ah,  not  in  heaven,  but  upon  earth, 
Are  signs  of  change  exprest ; 

The  closing  year  has  left  its  mark 
On  human  brow  and  breast 

How  much  goes  with  it  to  the  grave 
Of  life's  most  precious  things  ? 

Methinks  each  year  dies  on  a  pyre, 
Like  the  Assyrian  kings. 

Affections,  friendships,  confidence, — 
There's  not  a  year  hath  died 

But  all  these  treasures  of  the  heart 
Lie  with  it  side  by  side. 

The  wheels  of  time  work  heavily ; 

We  marvel  day  by  day 
To  see  how  from  the  chain  of  life 

The  gilding  wears  away. 


406  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Sad  the  mere  change  of  fortune's  chance, 

And  sad  the  friend  unkind  ; 
But  what  has  sadness  like  the  change 

That  in  ourselves  we  find  ? 

I've  wept  my  castle  in  the  dust, 

Wept  o'er  an  altered  brow  ; 
'Tis  far  w.orse  murmuring  o'er  those  tears, 

"  Would  I  could  weep  them  now  ! " 

O,  for  mine  early  confidence, 

Which  like  that  graceful  tree 
Bent  cordial,  as  if  each  approach 

Could  but  in  kindness  be ! 

Then  was  the  time  the  fairy  Hope 

My  future  fortune  told, 
Or  Youth,  the  alchymist,  that  turned 

Whate'er  he  touched  to  gold. 

But  Hope's  sweet  words  can  never  be 
What  they  have  been  of  yore  : 

I  am  grown  wiser,  and  believe 
In  fairy  tales  no  more. 

And  Youth  has  spent  his  wealth,  and  bought 
The  knowledge  he  would  fain 

Change  for  forgetfulness,  and  live 
His  dreaming  life  again. 

I'm  weary,  weary:  day-drearns,  years, 

I've  seen  alike  depart, 
And  sullen  Care  and  Discontent 

Hang  brooding  o'er  my  heart. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  407 

Another  year,  another  year, — 

Alas !  and  must  it  be 
That  Time's  most  dark  and  weary  wheel 

Must  turn  again  for  me  ? 

In  vain  I  seek  from  out  the  past 

Some  cherished  wreck  to  save  ; 
Affection,  feeling,  hope,  are  dead, — 

My  heart  is  its  own  grave  ! 


HOME. 

I  LEFT  my  home  ; — 'twas  in  a  little  vale 
Sheltered  from  snow-storms  by  the  stately  pines ; 
A  small  clear  river  wandered  quietly, 
Its  smooth  Avaves  only  cut  by  the  light  barks 
Of  fishers,  and  but  darkened  by  the  shade 
The  willows  flung,  when  to  the  southern  wind 
They  threw  their  long  green  tresses.     On  the  slope 
Were  five  or  six  white  cottages,  whose  roofs 
Reached  not  to  the  laburnum's  height,  whose  bougha 
Shook  over  them  bright  showers  of  golden  bloom. 
Sweet  silence  reigned  around : — no  other  sound 
Came  on  the  air,  than  when  the  shepherd  made 
The  reed-pipe  rudely  musical,  or  notes 
From  the  wild  birds,  or  children  in  their  play 
Sending  forth  shouts  of  laughter.     Strangers  come 
Rarely  or  never  near  the  lonely  place.  .  .  . 
I  went  into  far  countries.     Years  passed  by, 


408  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

But  still  that  vale  in  silent  beauty  dwelt 
Within  my  memory.     Home  I  came  at  last. 
I  stood  upon  a  mountain  height,  and  looked 
Into  the  vale  below  ;  and  smoke  arose, 
And  heavy  sounds  ;  and  through  the  thick  dim  air 
Shot  blackened  turrets,  and  brick  walls,  and  roofs 
Of  the  red  tile.     I  entered  in  the  streets  : 
There  were  ten  thousand  hurrying  to  and  fro ; 
And  masted  vessels  stood  upon  the  river, 
And  barges  sullied  the  once  dew-clear  stream : 
Where  were  the  willows,  where  the  cottages  ? 
I  sought  my  home ;  I  sought,  and  found  a  city, — 
Alas  !  for  the  green  valley  ! 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

HE  sleeps — the  night  wind  o'er  the  battle-field 

Is  gently  sighing ; 
Gently,  though  each  breeze  bear  away 

Life  from  the  dying. 

He  sleeps, — though  his  dear  and  early  friend 

A  corpse  lies  by  him  ; 
Though  the  ravening  vulture  and  screaming  crow 

Are  hovering  nigh  him. 

He  sleeps, — where  blood  has  been  poured  like  rain. 
Another  field  before  him  : 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  409 

And  he  sleeps  as  calm  as  his  mother's  eyes 
Were  watching  o'er  him. 

To-morrow  that  youthful  victor's  name 

Will  be  proudly  given, 
By  the  trumpet's  voice,  and  the  soldier's  shout, 

To  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Yet  life,  how  pitiful  and  how  mean, 

Thy  noblest  story ; 
When  the  high  excitement  of  victory, 

The  fullness  of  glory, 

Nor  the  sorrow  felt  for  the  friend  of  his  youth, 

Whose  corpse  he  is  keeping, 
Can  give  his  human  weakness  force 

To  keep  from  sleeping. 

And  this  is  the  sum  of  our  mortal  state, 

The  hopes  we  number, — 
Feverish,  waking,  danger,  death, 

And  listless  slumber. 

35 


(410) 
MANMADIN,  THE  INDIAN  CUPID, 

FLOATING  DOWN  THE  GANGES. 

THERE  is  a  darkness  on  the  sky, 
And  the  troubled  waves  run  high, 
And  the  lightning  flash  is  breaking, 
And  the  thunder  peal  is  waking ; 
Reddening  meteors,  strange  and  bright, 
Cross  the  rainbow's  timid  light, 
As  if  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
Storm  and  sunshine,  shook  the  sphere. 
Tempest  winds  rush  fierce  along, 
Bearing  yet  a  sound  of  song, 
Music's  on  the  tempest's  wing, 
Wafting  thee  young  Manmadin  ! 
Pillowed  on  a  lotus  flower 
Gathered  in  a  summer  hour, 
Rides  he  o'er  the  mountain  wave 
Which  would  be  a  tall  ship's  grave  ' 
At  his  back  his  bow  is  slung, 
Sugar-cane,  with  wild  bees  strung, — 
Bees  born  with  the  buds  of  spring, 
Yet  with  each  a  deadly  sting ; 
Grasping  in  his  infant  hand 
Arrows  in  their  silken  band, 
Each  made  of  a  signal  flower, 
Emblem  of  its  varied  power  ; 
Some  formed  of  the  silver  leaf 
Of  the  almond,  bright  and  brief, 


LANDOJN'S  POEMS.  411 

Just  a  frail  and  lovely  thing, 
For  but  one  hour's  flourishing ; 
Others,  on  whose  shaft  there  glows 
The  red  beauty  of  the  rose ; 
Some  in  spring's  half-folded  bloom, 
Some  in  summer's  full  perfume ; 
Some  with  withered  leaves  and  sere, 
Falling  with  the  falling  year ; 
Some  bright  with  the  rainbow  dyes 
Of  the  tulip's  vanities  ; 
Some,  bound  with  the  lily's  bell, 
Breathe  of  love  that  dares  not  tell 
Its  sweet  feelings  ;  the  dark  leaves 
Of  the  esignum,  which  grieves 
Droopingly,  round  some  were  bound ; 
Others  were  with'  tendrils  wound 
Of  the  green  and  laughing  vine, — 
And  the  barb  was  dipped  in  wine. 
But  all  these  are  summer  ills, 
Like  the  tree  whose  stem  distils 
Balm  beneath  its  pleasant  shade 
In  the  wounds  its  thorns  have  made. 
Though  the  flowers  may  fade  and  die, 
'Tis  but  a  light  penalty. 
All  these  bloom-clad  darts  are  meant 
But  for  a  short-lived  content ! 
Yet  one  arrow  has  a  power 
Lasting  till  life's  latest  hour — 
Weary  day  and  sleepless  night, 
Lightning  gleams  of  fierce  delight, 
Fragrant  and  yet  poisoned  sighs, 
Agonies  and  ecstacies ; 
Hopes,  like  fires  amid  the  gloom, 
Lighting  only  to  consume ! 


412  LANDON'S  POEMS 

Happiness  one  hasty  draught, 
And  the  lip  has  venom  quaffed. 
Doubt,  despairing,  crime,  and  craft, 
Are  upon  that  honeyed  shaft! 
It  has  made  the  crowned  king 
Crouch  beneath  his  suffering  ; 
Made  the  beauty's  cheek  more  pale 
Than  the  foldings  of  her  veil : 
Like  a  child  the  soldier  kneel 
Who  had  mocked  at  flame  or  steel ; 
Bade  the  fires  of  genius  turn 
On  their  own  breasts,  and  there  burn: 
A  wound,  a  blight,  a  curse,  a  doom, 
Bowing  young  hearts  to  the  tomb  ! 
Well  may  storm  be  on  the  sky, 
And  the  waters  roll  on  high, 
When  Manmadin  passes  by. 
Earth  below,  and  heaven  above, 
Well  may  bend  to  thee,  O  Love ! 


THE  FEMALE  CONVICT. 

SHE  shrank  from  all,  and  her  silent  mood 
Made  her  wish  only  for  solitude : 
Her  eye  sought  the  ground,  as  it  could  not  brook, 
For  innermost  shame,  on  another's  to  look  ; 
And  the  cheerings  of  comfort  fell  on  her  ear 
Like  deadliest  words,  that  were  curses  to  hear !  — 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  413 

She  still  was  young,  and  she  had  been  fair ; 
But  weather-stains,  hunger,  toil,  and  care, 
That  frost  and  fever  that  wear  the  heart, 
Had  made  the  colors  of  youth  depart 
From  the  sallow  cheek,  save  over  it  came 
The  burning  flush  of  the  spirit's  shame. 

They  were  sailing  o'er  the  salt  sea-foam, 
Far  from  her  country,  far  from  her  home ; 
And  all  she  had  left  for  her  friends  to  keep 
Was  a  name  to  hide,  and  a  memory  to  weep ! 
And  her  future  held  forth  but  the  felon's  lot, 
To  live  forsaken — to  die  forgot ! 
She  could  not  weep,  and  she  could  not  pray, 
But  she  wasted  and  withered  from  day  to  day, 
Till  you  might  have  counted  each  sunken  vein, 
When  her  wrist  was  prest  by  the  iron  chain ; 
And  sometimes  I  thought  her  large  dark  eye 
Had  the  glisten  of  red  insanity. 

She  called  me  once  to  her  sleeping  place , 
A  strange,  wild  look  was  upon  her  face, 
Her  eye  flashed  over  her  cheek  so  white, 
Like  a  gravestone  seen  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
And  she  spoke  in  a  low,  unearthly  tone — 
The  sound  from  mine  ear  hath  never  gone ! 
"  I  had  last  night  the  loveliest  dream : 
My  own  land  shone  in  the  summer  beam, 
I  saw  the  fields  of  the  golden  grain, 
I  heard  the  reaper's  harvest  strain  ; 
There  stood  on  the  hills  the  green  pine  tree, 
And  the  thrush  and  the  lark  sang  merrily. 
A  long  and  a  weary  way  I  had  come  ; 

stopped,  methought,  by  mine  own  sweet  home* 

35* 


114  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

I  stood  by  the  hearth,  and  my  father  sat  there, 

With  pale,  thin  face,  and  snow-white  hair ! 

The  Bible  lay  open  upon  his  knee, 

But  he  closed  the  book  to  welcome  me. 

He  led  me  next  where  my  mother  lay, 

And  together  we  knelt  by  her  grave  to  pray, 

And  heard  a  hymn  it  was  heaven  to  hear, 

For  it  echoed  one  to  my  young  days  dear. 

This  dream  has  waked  feelings  long,  long  since  fled , 

And  hopes  which  I  deemed  in  my  heart  were  dead ! 

—We  have  not  spoken,  but  still  I  have  hung 

On  the  northern  accents  that  dwell  on  thy  tongue 

To  me  they  are  music,  to  me  they  recall 

The  things  long  hidden  by  Memory's  pall ! 

Take  this  long  curl  of  yellow  hair, 

And  give  it  ray  father,  and  tell  him  my  prayer, 

My  dying  prayer,  was  for  him."  .... 

Next  day 

Upon  the  deck  a  coffin  lay  ; 
They  raised  it  up,  and  like  a  dirge 
The  heavy  gale  swept  o'er  the  surge ; 
The  corpse  was  cast  to  the  wind  and  wave — 
The  convict  has  found  in  the  green  sea  a  grave. 


(415) 


THE  OAK. 

It  is  the  last  survivor  of  a  race 

Strong  in  their  forest  pride  when  I  was  young. 

I  can  remember  when,  for  miles  around, 

In  place  of  those  smooth  meadows  and  corn-fields, 

There  stood  ten  thousand  stately  trees, 

Such  as  had  braved  the  winds  of  March,  the  bolt 

Sent  by  the  summer  lightning,  and  the  snow 

Heaping  for  weeks  their  boughs.    Even  in  the  depth 

Of  hot  July  the  glades  were  cool ;  the  grass, 

Yellow  and  parched  elsewhere,  grew  long  and  fresh, 

Shading  wild  strawberries  and  violets, 

Or  the  lark's  nest ;  and  overhead  the  dove 

Had  her  lone  dwelling,  paying  for  her  home 

With  melancholy  songs  ;  and  scarce  a  beech 

Was  there  without  a  honeysuckle  linked 

Around,  with  its  red  tendrils  and  pink  flowers ; 

Or  girdled  by  a  brier-rose,  whose  buds 

Yield  fragrant  harvest  for  the  honey  bee 

There  dwelt  the  last  red  deer,  those  antlered  kings. 

But  this  is  a  dream, — the  plough  has  passed 

Where  the  stag  bounded,  and  the  day  has  looked 

On  the  green  twilight  of  the  forest  trees. 

This  oak  has  no  companion !  .  .  .  . 


(416) 


THE  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE. 

THERE'S  a  white  stone  placed  upon  yonder  tomb, 

Beneath  is  a  soldier  lying : 
The  death-wound  came  amid  sword  and  plume, 

When  banner  and  ball  were  flying. 

Yet  now  he  sleeps,  the  turf  on  his  breast, 

By  wet  wild  flowers  surrounded  ; 
The  church  shadow  falls  o'er  his  place  of  rest, 

Where  the  steps  of  his  childhood  bounded. 

There  were  tears  that  fell  from  manly  eyes, 

There  was  woman's  gentler  weeping, 
And  the  wailing  of  age  and  infant  cries, 

O'er  the  grave  where  he  lies  sleeping. 

He  had  left  his  house  in  his  spirit's  pride, 

With  his  father's  sword  and  blessing  ; 
He  stood  with  the  valiant  side  by  side, 

His  country's  wrongs  redressing. 

He  came  again  in  the  light  of  his  fame, 

When  the  red  campaign  was  over : 
One  heart  that  in  secret  had  kept  his  name, 

Was  claimed  by  the  soldier  lover. 

I 

But  the  cloud  of  strife  came  upon  the  sky ; 

He  left  his  sweet  home  for  battle : 
And  his  young  child's  lisp  for  the  loud  war-cry, 

And  the  cannon's  long  death-rattle. 


LANDO.N'S  POEMS.  417 

He  came  again,— but  an  altered  man : 
The  path  of  the  grave  was  before  him, 

And  the  smile  that  he  wore  was  cold  and  wan, 
For  the  shadow  of  death  hung  o'er  him. 

He  spoke  of  victory, — spoke  of  cheer : — 
These  are  words  that  are  vainly  spoken-  • 

To  the  childless  mother  or  orphan's  ear, 
Or  the  widow  whose  heart  is  broken. 

A  helmet  and  sword  are  engraved  on  the  stone, 

Half  hidden  by  yonder  willow  ; 
There  he  sleeps,  whose  death  in  battle  was  won 

But  who  died  on  his  own  home-pillow  ! 


SONG  OP  THE  HUNTER'S  BRIDE. 

ANOTHER  day — another  day — 

And  yet  he  comes  not  nigh ; 
I  look  amid  the  dim  blue  hills, 

Yet  nothing  meets  mine  eye. 

I  hear  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 

Upon  the  echoes  borne  ; 
I  hear  the  singing  of  the  birds, 

But  not  my  hunter's  horn. 

The  eagle  sails  in  darkness  past, 
The  watchful  chamois  bounds ; 


418  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

But  what  I  look  for  comes  not  near, — 
My  Ulric's  hawk  and  hounds. 

Three  times  I  thus  have  watched  the  snow 
Grow  crimson  with  the  stain, 

The  setting  sun  threw  o'er  the  rock, 
And  I  have  watched  in  vain. 

1  love  to  see  the  graceful  bow 
Across  his  shoulder  slung, — 

I  love  to  see  the  golden  horn 
Beside  his  baldric  hung. 

I  love  his  dark  hounds,  and  I  love 
His  falcon's  sweeping  flight ; 

I  love  to  see  his  manly  cheek 
With  mountain  colors  bright 

IVe  waited  patiently,  but  now 
Would  that  the  chase  was  o'er: 

Well  may  he  love  the  hunter's  toil, 
But  he  should  love  me  more. 

Why  stays  he  thus  ? — he  would  be  here, 

If  his  love  equalled  mine  ; 
Methinks  had  I  one  fond  caged  dove, 

I  would  not  let  it  pine. 

But,  hark !  what  are  those  ringing  steps 

That  up  the  valley  come  ? 
I  see  his  hounds — I  see  himself, — 

My  Ulric,  welcome  home ' 


(419) 


THE  VIOLET. 

VIOLETS  ! — deep-blue  violets  ! 

April's  loveliest  coronets ! 

There  are  no  flowers  grow  in  the  vale, 

Kissed  by  the  dew,  wooed  by  the  gale, — 

None  by  the  dew  of  the  twilight  wet, 

So  sweet  as  the  deep-blue  violet ; 

I  do  remember  how  sweet  a  breath 

Came  with  the  azure  light  of  a  wreath 

That  hung  round  the  wild  harp's  golden  chords, 

Which  rang  to  my  dark-eyed  lover's  words. 

I  have  seen  that  deep  harp  rolled 

With  gems  of  the  East  and  bands  of  gold ; 

But  it  never  was  sweeter  than  when  set 

With  leaves  of  the  deep-blue  violet ! 

And  when  the  grave  shall  open  for  me, — 

I  care  not  how  soon  that  time  may  be, — 

Never  a  rose  shall  grow  on  that  tomb, 

It  breathes  too  much  of  hope  and  of  bloom ; 

But  there  be  that  flower's  meek  regret, 

The  bending  and  deep-blue  violet ! 


V420 


LOVE. 

SHE  prest  her  slight  hand  to  her  brow,  or  pain 

Or  bitter  thoughts  were  passing  there.     The  room 

Had  no  light  but  that  from  the  fireside, 

Which  showed,  then  hid  her  face.     How  very  pale 

It  looked,  when  over  it  the  glimmer  shone  ! 

Is  not  the  rose  companion  of  the  spring  ? 

Then  wherefore  has  the  red-leaved  flower  forgotten 

Her  cheek  ?     The  tears  stood  in  her  large  dark  eyes — 

Her  beautiful  dark  eyes — like  hyacinth  stars, 

When  shines  their  shadowy  glory  through  the  dew 

That  summer  nights  have  wept ; — she  felt  them  not, 

Her  heart  was  far  away  !     Her  fragile  form, 

Like  the  young  willow  when  for  the  first  time 

The  wind  sweeps  o'er  it  rudely,  had  not  lost 

Its  own  peculiar  grace ;  but  it  was  bowed 

By  sickness,  or  by  worse  than  sickness — sorrow  ! 

And  this  is  Love ! — O  !  why  should  woman  love ; 

Wasting  her  dearest  feelings,  till  health,  hope, 

Happiness,  are  but  things  of  which  henceforth 

She'll  only  know  the  name  ?     Her  heart  is  seared : 

A  sweet  light  has  been  thrown  upon  its  life, 

To  make  its  darkness  the  more  terrible. 

And  this  is  Love  ! 


(421) 


THE  SOLDIER'S  FUNERAL. 

AND  the  muffled  drum  rolled  on  the  air, 
Warriors  with  stately  step  were  there  ; 
On  every  arm  was  the  black  crape  bound, 
Every  carbine  was  turned  to  the  ground  ; 
Solemn  the  sound  of  their  measured  tread, 
As  silent  and  slow  they  followed  the  dead. 
The  riderless  horse  was  led  in  the  rear, 
There  were  white  plumes  waving  over  the  bier ; 
Helmet  and  sword  were  laid  on  the  pall 
For  it  was  a  soldier's  funeral. 

That  soldier  had  stood  on  the  battle-plain, 

Where  every  step  was  over  the  slain : 

But  the  brand  and  the  ball  had  passed  him  by, 

And  he  came  to  his  native  land  to  die. 

'Twas  hard  to  come  to  that  native  land, 

And  not  clasp  one  familiar  hand  ! 

'Twas  hard  to  be  numbered  arnid  the  dead, 

Or  ere  he  could  hear  his  welcome  said ! 

But  'twas  something  to  see  its  cliffs  once  more, 

And  to  lay  his  bones  on  his  own  loved  shore ; 

To  think  that  the  friends  of  his  youth  might  weep 

O'er  the  green  grass  turf  of  the  soldier's  sleep. 

The  bugles  ceased  their  wailing  sound 

As  the  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  ground ; 

A  volley  was  fired,  a  blessing  said, 

One  moment's  pause— and  they  left  they  dead  !— 

30 


422  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

I  saw  a  poor  and  an  aged  man, 

His  step  was  feeble,  his  lip  was  wan  : 

He  knelt  him  down  on  the  new-raised  mound, 

His  face  was  bowed  on  the  cold  damp  ground, 

He  raised  his  head,  his  tears  were  done, — 

The  father  had  prayed  o'er  his  only  son ! 


LINES 

WRITTEN   UNDER   THE     PICTURE    OF    A    GIRL     BURNING 
A   LOVE-LETTER. 

I  TOOK  the  scroll :   I  could  not  brook, 

An  eye  to  gaze  on  it  save  mine  ; 
I  could  not  bear  another's  look 

Should  dwell  upon  one  thought  of  thine. 
My  lamp  was  burning  by  my  side, 

I  held  thy  letter  to  the  flame, 
I  marked  the  blaze  swift  o'er  it  glide, 

It  did  not  even  spare  thy  name 
Soon  the  light  from  the  embers  past, 

I  felt  so  sad  to  -see  it  die, 
So  bright  at  first,  so  dark  at  last, 

I  feared  it  was  love's  history 


(423) 


THE  FACTORY. 

THERE  rests  a  shade  above  yon  town, 

A  dark  funereal  shroud : 
'Tis  not  the  tempest  hurrying  down, 

'Tis  not  a  summer  cloud. 

The  smoke  that  rises  on  the  air 

Is  as  a  type  and  sign  ; 
A  shadow  flung  by  the  despair 

Within  those  streets  of  thine. 

That  smoke  shuts  out  the  cheerful  day, 

The  sunset's  purple  hues, 
The  moonlight's  pure  and  tranquil  ray 

The  morning's  pearly  dews. 

Such  is  the  moral  atmosphere 

Around  thy  daily  life  ; 
Heavy  with  care,  and  pale  with  fear, 

With  future  tumult  rife. 

There  rises  on  the  morning  wind 

A  low  appalling  cry, 
A  thousand  children  are  resigned 

To  sicken  and  to  die  ! 

We  read  of  Moloch's  sacrifice, 
We  sicken  at  the  name, 

And  seem  to  hear  the  infant  cries— 
And  yet  we  do  the  same  ; — 


424  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

And  worse — 'twas  but  a  moment's  pam 

The  heathen  altar  gave, 
But  we  give  years, — our  idol,  Gain, 

Demands  a  living  grave  ! 

How  precious  is  the  little  one, 

Before  his  mother's  sight, 
With  bright  hair  dancing  in  the  sun, 
And  eyes  of  azure  light ! 

He  sleeps  as  rosy  as  the  south 
For  summer  days  are  long  ; 

A  prayer  upon  the  little  mouth, 
Lulled  by  his  nurse's  song. 

Love  is  around  him,  and  his  hours 

Are  innocent  and  free  ; 
His  mind  essays  its  early  powers 

Beside  his  mother's  knee. 

When  after-years  of  trouble  come, 
Such  as  aAvait  man's  prime, 

How  will  he  think  of  that  dear  home, 
And  childhood's  lovely  time ! 

And  such  should  childhood  ever  be, 

The  fairy  well,  to  bring 
To  life's  worn,  weary  memory 

The  freshness  of  its  spring. 

But  here  the  order  is  reversed, 

And  infancy,  like  age, 
Knows  of  existence  but  its  worst, 

One  dull  and  darkened  page ; — 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  425 


Written  with  tears  and  stamped  with  toil, 
Crushed  from  the  earliest  hour : 

Weeds  darkening  on  the  bitter  soil, 
That  never  knew  a  flower. 

Look  on  yon  child,  it  droops  the  head, 
Its  knees  are  bowed  with  pain  ; 

It  mutters  from  its  wretched  bed, 
"  O,  let  me  sleep  again  !  " 

Alas  !  'tis  time,  the  mother's  eyes 

Turn  mournfully  away ; 
Alas  !  'tis  time,  the  child  must  rise, 

And  yet  it  is  not  day. 

The  lantern's  lit — she  hurries  forth, 
The  spare  cloak's  scanty  fold 

Scarce  screens  her  from  the  snowy  north ; 
The  child  is  pale  and  cold. 

^nd  wearily  the  little  hands 

Their  task  accustomed  ply  ; 
While  daily,  some  'mid  those  pale  bands, 

Droop,  sicken,  pine,  and  die. 

Good  God  !  to  think  upon  a  child 

That  has  no  childish  days, 
No  careless  play,  no  frolics  wild, 

No  words  of  prayer  and  praise  I 

Man  from  the  cradle — 'tis  too  soon 

To  earn  their  daily  bread, 
And  heap  the  heat  and  toil  of  noon 

Upon  an  infant's  head. 

3(5* 


426  LAND  ON' s  POEMS. 

To  labor  ere  their  strength  be  come, 

Or  starve, — is  such  the  doom 
That  makes  of  many  an  English  home 

One  long  and  living  tomb  ? 

Is  there  no  pity  from  above, — 

No  mercy  in  those  skies  ; 
Hath  then  the  heart  of  man  no  love, 

To  spare  such  sacrifice  ? 

O,  England!  though  thy  tribute  waves 
Proclaim  thee  great  and  free, 

While  those  small  children  pine  like  slaves, 
There  is  a  curse  on  thee  ! 


WHEN  SHOULD  LOVERS  BREATHE 
THEIR  VOWS? 

WHEN  should  lovers  breathe  their  vows  ? 

When  should  ladies  hear  them  ? 
When  the  dew  is  on  the  boughs, 

When  none  else  are  near  them ; 
When  the  moon  shines  cold  and  pale, 

When  the  birds  are  sleeping, 
When  no  voice  is  on  the  gale, 

When  the  rose  is  weeping ; 
When  the  stars  are  bright  on  high 

Like  hopes  in  young  Love's  dreaming, 


LANDON'S   POEMS.  427 

And  glancing  round  the  light  clouds  fly, 

Like  soft  fears  to  shade  their  beaming. 
The  fairest  smiles  are  those  that  live 

On  the  brow  by  starlight  wreathing ; 
And  the  lips  their  richest  incense  give 

When  the  sigh  is  at  midnight  breathing. 
O,  softest  is  the  cheek's  love-ray 

When  seen  by  moonlight  hours ; 
Other  roses  seek  the  day, 

But  blushes  arc  night-flowers. 
O,  when  the  moon  and  stars  are  bright, 

When  the  dew-drops  glisten, 
Then  their  vows  should  lovers  plight, 

Then  should  ladies  listen  ! 


THE  LOST  STAR.  ' 

A  LIGHT  is  gone  from  yonder  sky, 

.A  star  has  left  its  sphere  ; 
The  beautiful — and  do  they  die 

In  yon  bright  world  as  here  ? 
Will  that  star  leave  a  lonely  place, 

A  darkness  on  the  night  ? — 
No  ;  few  will  miss  its  lovely  face, 

And  none  will  think  heaven  less  bright ! 

What  wert  thou  star  of? — vanished  one  , 
What  mystery  was  thine  ? 


428  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Thy  beauty  from  the  east  is  gone : 
What  was  thy  sway  and  sign  ? 

Wert  thou  the  star  of  opening  youth  ? — 
And  is  it  then  for  thee, 

Its  frank  glad  thoughts,  its  stainless  truth, 
So  early  cease  to  be  ? 

Of  hope — and  was  it  to  express 

How  soon  hope  sinks  in  shade  ; 
Or  else  of  human  loveliness, 

In  sign  how  it  will  fade  ? 
How  was  thy  dying — like  the  song, 

In  music  to  the  last, 
An  echo  flung  the  winds  among, 

And  then  for  ever  past  ? 

Or  didst  thou  sink  as  stars  whose  light 

The  fair  moon  renders  vain  ? 
The  rest  shone  forth  the  next  dark  night, 

Thou  didst  not  shine  again. 
Didst  thou  fade  gradual  from  the  time 

The  first  great  curse  was  hurled, 
Till  lost  in  sorrow  and  in  crime, 

Star  of  our  early  world  ? 

Forgotten  and  departed  star ! 

A  thousand  glories  shine 
Round  the  blue  midnight's  regal  car, 

Who  then  remembers  thine  ? 
Save  when  some  mournful  bard  like  me 

Dreams  over  beauty  gone, 
And  in  the  fate  that  waited  thee, 

Reads  what  will  be  his  own. 


(429) 

I 

GLENCOE. 

i 

LAY  by  the  harp,  sing  not  that  song, 

Although  so  very  sweet ; 
It  is  the  song  of  other  years, 

For  thee  and  me  unmeet. 
i 

Thy  head  is  pillowed  on  my  arm, 

Thy  heart  beats  close  to  mine  ; 
Methinks  it  were  unjust  to  heaven, 

If  we  should  now  repine. 

I  must  not  weep,  you  must  not  sing 
That  thrilling  song  again, — 

I  dare  not  think  upon  the  time 
When  last  I  heard  that  strain. 

It  was  a  silent  summer  eve  : 
We  stood  by  the  hill-side, 

And  we  could  see  my  ship  afar 
Breasting  the  ocean  tide. 

Around  us  grew  the  graceful  larch, 
A  calm  blue  sky  above, 

Beneath  were  little  cottages, 
The  homes  of  peace  and  love. 

Thy  harp  was  by  thee  then,  as  now, 
One  hand  in  mine  was  laid ; 

The  other,  wandering  'mid  the  chorda, 
A  soothing  music  made : 


430  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Just  two  or  three  sweet  chords,  that  seemed 

An  echo  of  thy  tone, — 
The  cushat's  song  was  on  the  wind, 

And  mingled  with  thine  own. 

I  looked  upon  the  vale  beneath. 

I  looked  on  thy  sweet  face  : 
I  thought  how  dear,  this  voyage  o'er, 

Would  be  my  resting  place. 

We  parted ;  but  I  kept  thy  kiss,— 

Thy  last  one, — and  its  sigh, 
As  safely  as  the  stars  are  kept 

In  yonder  azure  sky. 

Again  I  stood  by  that  hill-side, 
And  scarce  I  knew  the  place, 

For  fire,  and  blood,  and  death,  had  left 
On  everything  their  trace. 

The  lake  was  covered  o'er  with  weeds, 

Choked  was  our  little  rill, 
There  was  no  sign  of  corn  or  grass, 

The  cushat's  song  was  still : 

Burnt  to  the  dust,  an  ashy  heap 
Was  every  cottage  round  ; — 

I  listened  but  I  could  not  hear 
One  single  human  sound  : 

I  spoke,  and  only  my  own  words 

Were  echoed  from  the  hill ; 
I  sat  me  down  to  weep,  and  curse 

The  hand  that  wrought  this  ill. 


LAND  ON' s  POEMS.  431 

We  met  again  by  miracle  : 

Thou  wert  another  one 
Saved  from  this  work  of  sin  and  death,— 

I  was  not  quite  alone. 

And  then  I  heard  the  evil  tale 

Of  guilt  and  suffering, 
Till  I  prayed  the  curse  of  God  might  fall 

On  the  false-hearted  king. 
i 

I  will  not  think  on  this, — for  thou 

Art  saved,  and  saved  for  me  ! 
And  gallantly  my  little  bark 

Cuts  through  the  moonlight  sea. 

There's  not  a  shadow  in  the  sky, 

The  waves  are  bright  below ; 
I  must  not,  on  so  sweet  a  night, 

Think  upon  dark  Glencoe. 

If  thought  were  vengeance,  then  its  thought 

A  ceaseless  fire  should  be, 
Burning  by  day,  burning  by  night, 

Kept  like  a  thought  of  thee. 

But  I  am  powerless  and  must  flee  ;— 

That  e'er  a  time  should  come. 
When  we  should  shun  our  own  sweet  land, 

And  seek  another  home  ! 

This  must  not  be,— yon  soft  moonlight 

Falls  on  my  heart  like  balm  ; 
The  waves  are  still,  the  air  is  hushed, 

And  I  too  will  be  calm. 


432  LANDOJV'S    POEMS. 

Away  !  we  seek  another  land 
Of  hope,  stars,  flowers,  sunshine 

I  shall  forget  the  dark  green  hiiis 
Of  that  which  once  was  mine! 


THE  EMERALD  RING. 

A    SUPERSTITION. 

IT  is  a  gem  which  hath  the  power  to  show 
If  plighted  lovers  keep  their  vow  or  no : 
If  faithful,  it  is  like  the  leaves  of  spring ; 
If  faithless,  like  those  leaves  when  withering. 
Take  back  again  your  emerald  gem, 

There  is  no  color  in  the  stone ; 
It  might  have  graced  a  diadem, 

But  now  its  hue  and  light  are  gone  ! 

Take  back  your  gift,  and  give  me  mine — 

The  kiss  that  sealed  our  last  love-vow  ; 

Ah,  other  lips  have  been  on  thine, 

My  kiss  is  lost  and  sullied  now  ' 
The  gem  is  pale,  the  kiss  forgot, 

Andfc  more  than  either,  you  are  changed  ; 
But  my  true  love  has  altered  not, 
My  heart  is  broken — not  estranged  ! 


(433) 


THE  GRAY  CROSS. 

A  GRAY  cross  stands  beneath  yon  old  beech  tree ; 
It  marks  a  soldier's  and  a  maiden's  grave  : 
Around  it  is  a  grove  of  orange  trees, 
With  silver  blossoms  and  with  golden  fruit. 
It  Avas  a  Spaniard,  whom  he  saved  from  death, 
Raised  that  cross  o'er  the  gallant  Englishman. 

He  left  home  a  young  soldier,  full  of  hope 

And  enterprise  ! — he  fell  in  his  first  field ! 

There  came  a  lovely  pilgrim  to  his  tomb, 

The  blue-eyed  girl,  his  own  betrothed  bride, — 

Pale,  delicate, — one  looking  as  the  gale 

That  bowed  the  rose  could  sweep  her  from  the  earth. 

Yet  she  had  left  her  home,  where  every  look 

Had  been  watched,  O,  so  tenderly  ! — and  miles, 

Long  weary  miles  had  wandered.     When  she  came 

To  the  dim  shadow  of  the  aged  beech, 

She  was  worn  to  a  shadow  ;  colorless 

The  cheek  once  dyed  by  her  own  mountain  rose. 

She  reached  the  grave  and  died  upon  the  sod ! 

They  laid  her  by  her  lover : — and  her  tale 

Is  often  on  the  songs  that  the  guitar 

Echoes  in  the  lime  valleys  of  Castile  ! 


(434) 


THE  CHANGE. 

THY  features  do  not  bear  the  light 

They  wore  in  happier  days  ;  • 
Though  still  there  may  be  much  to  love, 

There's  little  left  to  praise. 

The  rose  has  faded  from  thy  cheek— 
There's  scarce  a  blush  left  now  ; 

And  there's  a  dark  and  weary  sign 
Upon  thine  altered  brow. 

Thy  raven  hair  is  dashed  with  gray, 
Thine  eyes  are  dim  with  tears ; 

And  care,  before  thy  youth  is  past, 
Has  done  the  work  of  years. 

Beautiful  wreck !  for  still  thy  face 
Though  changed,  is  very  fair  ; 

Like  beauty's  moonlight,  left  to  show 
Her  morning  sun  was  there. 

Come,  here  are  friends  and  festival, 

Recall  thine  early  smile  ; 
And  wear  yon  wreath,  whose  glad  red  rose 

Will  lend  its  bloom  awhile. 

Come,  take  thy  lute,  and  sing  again 

The  song  you  used  to  sing — 
The  birdlike  song  : — See,  though  unused, 

The  lute  has  every  string. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  435 

What,  doth  thy  hand  forget  the  lute  ? 

Thy  brow  reject  the  wreath  ? 
Alas  !  whate'er  the  change  above, 

There's  more  of  change  beneath  ? 

The  smile  may  come,  the  smile  may  go, 

The  blush  shine  and  depart ; 
But  farewell  when  their  sense  is  quenched 

Within  the  breaking  heart 

And  such  is  thine  :  'tis  vain  to  seek 

The  shades  of  past  delight : 
Fling  down  the  wreath,  and  break  the  lute ; 

They  mock  our  souls  to-night. 


THE  DANISH  WARRIOR'S  DEATH-SONG. 

AWAY,  away  !  your  care  is  vain ; 

No  leech  could  aid  me  now  ; 
The  chill  of  death  is  at  my  heart. 

Its  damp  upon  my  brow. 

Weep  not — I  shame  to  see  such  tears 

Within  a  warrior's  eyes  ; 
Away  !  how  can  ye  weep  for  him 

Who  in  the  battle  dies  ? 

If  I  had  died  with  idle  head 
Upon  my  lady's  knee — 


436  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Had  Fate  stood  by  my  silken  bed, 
Then  might  ye  weep  for  me. 

But  I  lie  on  my  own  proud  deck 

Before  the  sea  and  sky  ; 
The  wind  that  sweeps  my  gallant  sails 

Will  have  my  latest  sigh. 

My  banner  floats  amid  the  clouds, 

Another  droops  below : 
Well  with  my  heart's  best  blood  is  paid 

Such  purchase  from  a  foe. 

Go  ye  and  seek  my  halls,  there  dwells 
A  fair-haired  boy  of  mine ; 

Give  him  my  sword,  while  yet  the  blood 
Darkens  that  falchion's  shine. 

Tell  him  that  only  other  blood 
Should  wash  such  stains  away  ; 

And  if  he  be  his  father's  child, 
There  needs  no  more  to  say. 

Farewell,  my  bark !  farewell,  my  friends 
Now  fling  me  on  the  wave  ; 

One  cup  of  wine,  and  one  of  blood, 
Pour  on  my  bounding  grave. 


V437) 


THE  WRECK. 

THE  moonlight  fell  on  the  stately  ship ; 

It  shone  over  sea  and  sky  ; 
And  there  was  nothing  but  water  and  air 

To  meet  the  gazing  eye. 

Bright  and  blue  spread  the  heaven  above, 

Bright  and  blue  spread  the  sea ; 
The  stars  from  their  home  shone  down  on  the  wave, 

Till  they  seemed  in  the  wave  to  be. 

With  silver  foam  like  a  cloud  behind, 

That  vessel  cut  her  way  ; 
But  the  shadow  she  cast,  was  the  sole  dark  thing 

That  upon  the  waters  lay. 

With  steps  of  power,  and  with  steps  of  pride, 

The  lord  of  the  vessel  paced 
The  deck,  as  he  thought  on  the  wave  below, 

And  the  glorious  heaven  he  faced 


One  moment's  pause,  and  his  spirit  fell 
From  its  bearing  high  and  proud ; 

But  yet  it  was  not  a  thought  of  fear 
That  the  seaman's  spirit  bowed  : 

For  he  had  stood  on  the  deck  when  washed 
With  blood,  and  that  blood  his  own ; 

When  the  dying  were  pillowed  upon  the  dead, 
And  yet  you  heard  not  a  groan — 


I 

I 

438  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

For  the  shout  of  battle  came  on  the  wind, 
And  the  cannon  roared  aloud  ; 

And  the  heavy  smoke  hung  round  each  ship, 
Even  like  its  death-shroud. 

And  he  had  guided  the  helm,  when  fate 
Seemed  stepping  every  wave, 

And  the  wind  swept  away  the  wreath  of  foam, 
To  show  a  yawning  grave. 

But  this  most  sweet  and  lighted  calm, 

Its  blue  and  midnight  hour, 
Wakened  the  hidden  springs  of  his  heart 

With  a  deep  and  secret  power. 

Is  there  some  nameless  boding  sent, 

Like  a  noiseless  voice  from  the  tomb  ? — 

A  spirit  note  from  the  other  world, 
To  warn  of  death  and  doom  ! 

He  thought  of  his  home,  of  his  own  fair  land, 
And  the  warm  tear  rushed  to  his  eye  ; 

Almost  with  fear  he  looked  around, 
But  no  cloud  was  on  the  sky. 

He  sought  his  cabin,  and  joined  his  band — 
The  wine-cup  was  passing  round  ; 

He  joined  in  their  laugh,  he  joined  in  the  song, 
But  no  mirth  was  in  the  sound. 

Peaceful  they  sought  their  quiet  sleep, 

In  the  soft  and  lovely  night ; 
But,  like  life,  the  sea  was  false,  and  hid 

The  cold  dark  rock  from  sight. 


I 

LANDON'S  POEMS.  439 

!  I 
At  midnight  there  came  a  sudden  shock, 

And  the  sleepers  sprang  from  bed  ; 
There  was  one  fierce  cry  of  last  despair — 

The  waves  closed  over  head. 

There  was  no  dark  cloud  on  the  morning  sky, 

No  fierce  wind  on  the  morning  air ; 
The  sun  shone  over  the  proud  ship's  track, 

But  no  oroud  ship  was  there ! 

i 


THE  LITTLE  SHROUD. 


She  laid  him  in  his  little  grave — 

'Twas  hard  to  lay  him  there, 
When  spring  was  putting  forth  its  flowers, 

And  everything  was  fair. 

She  had  lost  many  children— now 

The  last  of  them  was  gone  ; 
And  day  and  night  she  sat  and  wept 

Beside  the  funeral  stone. 

One  midnight,  while  her  constant  tears 
Were  falling  with  the  dew 


SHE  put  him  on  a  snow-white  shroud, 

A  chaplet  on  his  head  ; 
And  gathered  early  primroses 

To  scatter  o'er  the  dead. 


LANDON'S  POEMS. 

She  heard  a  voice,  and  lo  !  her  child 
Stood  by  her  weeping  too  ! 

His  shroud  was  damp,  his  face  was  white, 

He  said,—"  I  cannot  sleep, 
Your  tears  have  made  my  shroud  so  wet, 

O,  mother,  do  not  weep  !  " 

j 
O,  love  is  strong ! — the  mother's  heart 

Was  filled  with  tender  fears  ; 
O,  love  is  strong !  and  for  her  child 

Her  grief  restrained  its  tears. 

One  eve  a  light  shone  round  her  bed, 

And  there  she  saw  him  stand — 
Her  infant  in  his  little  shroud, 

A  taper  in  his  hand. 

"  Lo  !  mother,  see  my  shroud  is  dry, 

And  I  can  sleep  once  more  !  " 
And  beautiful  the  parting  smile 

The  little  infant  Avore. 

And  down  within  the  silent  grave 

He  laid  his  weary  head  ; 
And  soon  the  early  violets 

Grew  o'er  his  grassy  bed. 

The  mother  went  her  household  ways— 

Again  she  knelt  in  prayer, 
And  only  asked  of  Heaven  its  aid 

Her  heavy  lot  to  bear. 


(441) 


THE  FROZEN  SHIP. 

THE  fair  ship  cut  the  billows, 

And  her  path  lay  white  behind, 
And  dreamily  amid  her  sails 

Scarce  moved  the  sleeping  wind. 

The  sailors  sang  their  gentle  songs, 
Whose  words  were  home  and  love  ; 

Waveless  the  wide  sea  spread  beneath  — 
And  calm  the  heaven  above. 

But  as  they  sung,  each  voice  turned  low, 

Albeit  they  knew  not  why  ; 
For  quiet  was  the  waveless  sea, 

And  cloudless  was  the  sky. 

But  the  clear  air  was  cold  as  clear ; 

'Twas  pain  to  draw  the  breath  ; 
And  the  silence  and  the  chill  around 

Were  e'en  like  those  of  death. 

Colder  and  colder  grew  the  air, 

Spell-bound  seemed  the^wave  to  be, 

And  ere  night  fell,  they  knew  they  were  locked 
In  the  arms  of  that  icy  sea. 

Stiff  lay  the  sail,  chain-like  the  ropes, 

And  snow  passed  o'er  the  main  ; 
Each  thought,  but  none  spoke,  of  distant  home 

They  never  should  see  again. 


442  LONDON'S  POEMS. 

I 

Each  looked  upon  his  comrade's  faco, 

Pale  as  funereal  stone  ; 
Yet  none  could  touch  the  other's  hand, 

For  none  could  feel  his  own. 

Like  statues  fixed,  that  gallant  band 

Stood  on  the  dread  deck  to  die  ; 
The  sleet  was  their  shroud,  the  wind  their  dirge, 

And  their  churchyard  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

Fond  eyes  have  watched  by  their  native  shore, 

And  prayers  to  the  wild  winds  gave  ; 
But  never  again  came  that  stately  ship 

To  breast  the  English  wave. 

Hope  grew  fear,  and  fear  grew  hope, 

Till  both  alike  were  done  : 
And  the  bride  lay  down  in  her  grave  alone, 

And  the  mother  without  her  son. 

Years  passed,  and  of  that  goodly  ship 

Nothing  of  tidings  came  ; 
Till,  in  after-time,  when  her  fate  had  grown 

But  a  tale  of  fear  and  a  name — 

I 

It  was  beneath  a  tropic  sky 

The  tale  was  told  to  me  ; 
The  sailor  who  told,  in  his  youth  had  been 

Over  that  icy  sea. 

I 

He  said  it  was  fearful  to  see  them  stand, 

Nor  the  living,  nor  yet  the  dead, 
And  the  light  glared  strange  in  the  glassy  eyes 

Whose  human  look  was  fled. 


LANDOIN'S  POEMS.  443 

I 
For  frost  had  done  one  half  life's  part, 

And  kept  them  from  decay  : 
Those  they  loved  had  mouldered,  but  these 
Looked  the  dead  of  yesterday. 

Peace  to  the  souls  of  the  graveless  dead ' 

'Twas  an  awful  doom  to  dree  ; 
But  fearful  and  wondrous  are  thy  works, 

O  God !  in  the  boundless  sea ' 


REVENGE. 

AT,  gaze  upon  her  rose- wreathed  hair, 

And  gaze  upon  her  smile  : 
Seem  as  you  drank  the  very  air 

Her  breath  perfumed  the  while  ; 

And  walk  for  her  the  gifted  line, 
That  wild  and  witching  lay, 

And  swear  your  heart  is  as  a  shrine, 
That  only  owns  her  sway. 

Tis  well :  I  am  revenged  at  last, — 
Mark  you  that  scornful  cheek, — 

The  eye  averted  as  you  passed, 

Spoke  more  than  words  could  speak. 

Ay,  now  by  all  the  bitter  tears, 
That  I  have  shed  for  thee,— 


444  LA:STDO:S*S  POEMS. 

The  racking  doubts,  the  burning  fears, — 
Avenged  they  well  may  be — 

By  the  nights  passed  in  sleepless  care, 

The  days  of  endless  wo ; 
All  that  you  taught  my  heart  to  bear, 

All  that  yourself  will  know. 

I  would  not  wish  to  see  you  laid 

Within  an  early  tomb  ; 
I  should  forget  how  you  betrayed, 

And  only  weep  your  doom : 

But  this  is  fitting  punishment — 

To  live  and  love  in  vain, — 
O  my  wrung  heart,  be  thou  content, 

And  feed  upon  his  pain. 

Go  thou  and  watch  her  lightest  sigh, 

Thine  own  it  will  not  be  ; 
And  back  beneath  her  sunny  eye, — 

It  will  not  turn  on  tliee. 

'Tis  well :  the  rack,  the  chain,  the  wheel, 
Far  better  hadst  thou  proved : 

Even  I  could  almost  pity  feel, 
For  thou  art  not  beloved. 


(445 


THE  NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

A  NAMELESS  grave, — there  is  no  stone 

To  sanctify  the  dead : 
O'er  it  the  willow  droops  alone, 

With  only  wild  flowers  spread. 

"  O,  there  is  naught  to  interest  here, 

No  record  of  a  name, 
A  trumpet-call  upon  the  ear, 

High  on  the  roll  of  fame. 

"  I  will  not  pause  beside  a  tomb 

Where  nothing  calls  to  mind 
Aught  that  can  brighten  mortal  gloom, 

Or  elevate  mankind  ; — 

"  No  glorious  memory  to  efface 

The  stay  of  meaner  clay ; 
No  intellect  whose  heavenly  trace 

Redeemed  our  earth : — away  ! " 

Ah,  these  are  thoughts  that  well  may  rise 

On  youth's  ambitious  pride ; 
But  I  will  sit  and  moralize 

This  lowly  stone  beside. 

Here  thousands  might  have  slept,  whose  name 

Had  been  to  thee  a  spell, 
To  light  thy  flashing  eyes  with  flame, — 

To  bid  thy  young  heart  swell. 


446  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Here  might  have  been  a  warrior's  rest, 
Some  chief  who  bravely  bled, 

With  waving  banner,  sculptured  crest, 
And  laurel  on  his  head. 

That  laurel  must  have  had  its  blood, 
That  blood  have  caused  its  tear, — 

Look  on  the  lovely  solitude — 
What !  wish  for  warfare  here  ! 

A  poet  might  have  slept, — what !  he 
Whose  restless  heart  first  wakes 

Its  life-pulse  into  melody, 

Then  o'er  it  pines  and  breaks  ? — 

He  who  hath  sung  of  passionate  love, . 

His  life  a  feverish  tale  : — 
O  !  not  the  nightingale,  the  dove 

Would  suit  its  quiet  vale. 

See,  I  have  named  your  favorite  two,- 
Each  had  been  glad  to  crave 

Rest  'neath  this  turf's  unbroken  dew, 
And  such  a  nameless  grave. 


(447) 

I 


CAN  YOU  FORGET  ME? 

CAN  you  forget  me  ? — I  who  have  so  cherished 

The  veriest  trifle  that  was  memory's  link ; 
The  roses  that  you  gave  me,  although  perished, 

Were  precious  in  my  sight ;  they  made  me  think. 
You  took  them  in  their  scentless  beauty  stooping 

From  the  warm  shelter  of  the  garden  wall  ; 
Autumn,  while  into  languid  winter  drooping, 

Gave  its  last  blossoms,  opening  but  to  fall. 

Can  you  forget  them  ? 

Can  you  forget  me  ?    I  am  not  relying 

On  plighted  vows — alas !  I  know  their  worth  : 
Man's  faith  to  woman  is  a  trifle,  dying 

Upon  the  very  breath  that  gave  it  birth. 
But  I  remember  hours  of  quiet  gladness, 

When,  if  the  heart  had  truth,  it  spoke  it  then, 
When  thoughts  would  sometimes  take  a  tone  of  sadness, 

And  then  unconsciously  grow  glad  again. 

Can  you  forget  them  ? 

Can  you  forget  me  ?    My  whole  soul  was  blended  ; 

At  least  it  sought  to  blend  itself  with  thine  ; 
My  life's  whole  purpose,  winning  thee,  seemed  ended ; 

Thou  wert  my  heart's  sweet  home — my  spirit's  shrine 
Can  you  forget  me  ? — when  the  firelight  burning, 

Flung  sudden  gleams  around  the  quiet  room, 
How  would  thy  words,  to  long  past  moments  turning, 

Trust  me  with  thoughts  soft  as  the  shadowy  gloom ! 
Can  you  forget  them  ? 


448  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

There  is  no  truth  in  love,  whate'er  its  seeming, 

And  heaven  itself  could  scarcely  seem  more  true— - 
Sadly  have  I  awakened  from  the  dreaming, 

Whose  charmed  slumber — false  one  ! — was  of  you. 
I  gave  mine  inmost  being  to  thy  keeping — 

I  had  r/o  thought  I  did  not  seek  to  share  ; 
Feelings  that  hushed  within  my  soul  were  sleeping, 

Waked  into  voice,  to  trust  them  to  thy  care. 
Can  you  forget  them  ? 

Can  you  forget  me  ?    This  is  vainly  tasking 

The  faithless  heart  where  I,  alas !  am  not. 
Too  well  I  know  the  idleness  of  asking — 

The  misery — of  why  am  I  forgot  ? 
The  happy  hours  that  I  have  passed  while  kneeling 

Half  slave,  half  child,  to  gaze  upon  thy  face. 
— But  what  to  thee  this  passionate  appealing — 

Let  my  heart  break — it  is  a  common  case. 

You  have  forgotten  me 


THE  WREATH. 

NAT,  fling  not  down  those  faded  flowers, 
Too  late  they're  scattered  round ; 

And  violet  and  rose-leaf  lie 
Together  on  the  ground. 

How  carefully  this  very  morn 
Those  buds  were  culled  and  wreathed. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  449 

And,  'mid  the  cloud  of  that  dark  hair, 
How  sweet  a  sigh  they  breathed ! 

And  many  a  gentle  word  was  said 

Above  their  morning  dye, 
How  that  the  rose  had  touched  thy  cheek, 

The  violet  thine  eye. 

Methinks,  if  but  for  memory, 

I  should  have  kept  these  flowers  ; 
Ah  !  all  too  lightly  does  thy  heart 

Dwell  upon  vanished  hours. 

Already  has  thine  eager  hand 

Stripped  yonder  rose-hung  bough  ; 

The  wreath  that  bound  thy  raven  curls 
Thy  feet  are  on  it  now. 

That  glancing  smile,  it  seems  to  say 

"  Thou  art  too  fanciful ; " 
What  matters  it  what  roses  fade, 

While  there  are  more  to  cull ! 

Ay,  I  was  wrong  to  ask  of  thee 

Such  gloomy  thoughts  as  mine  : 
Thou  in  thy  Spring,  how  shouldst  thou  dream 

Of  Autumn's  pale  decline  ? 

Young,  lovely,  loved,— O !  far  from  thee 

Life's  after-dearth  and  doom  ; 
Long  ere  thou  learn  how  memory  clings 

To  even  faded  bloom  ! 


(450) 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL. 

SHE  sat  alone  beside  her  hearth — 

For  many  nights  alone  ; 
She  slept  not  on  the  pleasant  couch 

Where  fragrant  herbs  were  strown. 

At  first  she  bound  her  raven  hair 

With  feather  and  with  shell ; 
But  then  she  hoped  ;  at  length,  like  night, 

Around  her  neck  it  fell. 

They  saw  her  wandering  'mid  the  woods, 
Lone,  with  the  cheerless  dawn, 

And  then  they  said,  **  Can  this  be  her 
We  called  '  The  Startled  Fawn.' " 

Her  heart  was  in  her  large  sad  eyes, 
Half  sunshine  and  half  shade  ; 

And  love,  as  love  first  springs  to  life, 
Of  everything  afraid. 

The  red  leaf  far  more  heavily 

Fell  down  to  autumn  earth, 
Than  her  light  feet,  which  seemed  to  move 

To  music  and  to  mirth. 

With  the  light  feet  of  early  youth, 

What  hopes  and  joys  depart  ? 
Ah !  nothing  like  the  heavy  step 

Betrays  the  heavy  heart. 


! 

LANDON'S  POEMS.  451 

It  is  a  usual  history 

That  Indian  girl  could  tell ; 
Fate  sets  apart  one  common  doom 

For  all  who  love  too  well. 

The  proud — the  shy — the  sensitive, 

Life  has  not  many  such ; 
They  dearly  buy  their  happiness, 

By  feeling  it  too  much. 

A  stranger  to  her  forest  home, 

That  fair  young  stranger  came  , 
They  raised  for  him  the  funeral  song — 

For  him  the  funeral  flame. 

Love  sprang  from  pity, — and  her  arms 

Around  his  arms  she  threw  ; 
She  told  her  father,  "  If  he  dies, 

Your  daughter  dieth  too." 

For  her  sweet  sake  they  set  him  free — 

He  lingered  at  her  side  ; 
And  many  a  native  song  yet  tells 

Of  that  pale  stranger's  bride. 

Two  years  have  passed — how  much  two  years 

Have  taken  in  their  flight ! 
They've  taken  from  the  lip  its  smile, 

And  from  the  eye  its  light. 

Poor  child  !  she  was  a  child  in  years — 

So  timid  and  so  young  ; 
With  what  a  fond  and  earnest  faith 

To  desperate  hope  she  clung ! 


452  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

His  eyes  grew  cold — his  voice  grew  strange— 
They  only  grew  more  dear. 

She  served  him  meekly,  anxiously, 
With  love— half  faith,  half  fear. 


And  can  a  fond  and  faithful  heart 
Be  worthless  in  those  eyes 

For  which  it  beats  ? — Ah !  wo  to  those 
Who  such  a  heart  despise. 


Poor  child !  what  lonely  days  she  passed, 

With  nothing  to  recall 
But  bitter  taunts,  and  careless  words, 

And  looks  more  cold  than  all. 

Alas  !  for  love,  that  sits  at  home, 

Forsaken,  and  yet  fond  ; 
The  grief  that  sits  beside  the  hearth, 

Life  has  no  grief  beyond. 

He  left  her,  but  she  followed  him — 
She  thought  he  could  not  bear 

When  she  had  left  her  home  for  him 
To  look  on  her  despair. 

Adown  the  strange  and  mighty  stream 

She  took  her  lonely  way  ! 
The  stars  at  night  her  pilots  were, 

As  was  the  sun  by  day. 

Yet  mournfully — how  mournfully ! — 

The  Indian  looked  behind, 
When  the  last  sound  of  voice  or  step 

Died  on  the  midnight  wind. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  453 

Yet  still  adown  the  gloomy  stream 

She  plied  her  weary  oar ; 
Her  husband — he  had  left  their  home, 

And  it  was  home  no  more. 

She  found  him — but  she  found  in  vain — 

He  spurned  her  from  his  side  ; 
He  said,  her  brow  was  all  too  dark, 

For  her  to  be  his  bride. 

She  grasped  his  hands, — her  own  were  cold,— 

And  silent  turned  away, 
As  she  had  not  a  tear  to  shed, 

And  not  a  word  to  say. 

And  pale  as  death  she  reached  her  boat, 

And  guided  it  along ; 
With  broken  voice  she  strove  to  raise 

A  melancholy  song. 

None  watched  the  lonely  Indian  girl,— 

She  passed  unmarked  of  all, 
Until  they  saw  her  slight  canoe 

Approach  the  mighty  Fall ! 

Upright,  within  that  slender  boat 
They  saw  the  pale  girl  stand, 

Her  dark  hair  streaming  far  behind- 
Upraised  her  desperate  hand. 

The  air  is  filled  with  shriek  and  shout— 

They  call,  but  call  in  vain ; 
The  boat  amid  the  waters  dashed — 

'Twas  never  seen  again ! 


( 454  ) 


THE  SNOWDROP. 


THOU  beautiful  new  comer, 

With  white  and  maiden  brow  j 
Thou  fairy  gift  from  summer, 

Why  art  thou  blooming  now  ? 
This  dim  and  sheltered  alley 

Is  dark  with  winter  green  ; 
Not  such  as  in  the  valley 

At  sweet  spring-time  is  seen. 

The  lime-tree's  tender  yellow, 

The  aspen's  silvery  sheen, 
With  mingling  colors  mellow 

The  universal  green. 
Now  solemn  yews  are  bending 

'Mid  gloomy  fires  around ; 
And  in  long  dark  wreaths  descending 

The  ivy  sweeps  the  ground. 

No  sweet  companion  pledges 

Thy  health  as  dewdrops  pass  ; 
No  rose  is  on  the  hedges, 

No  violet  in  the  grass. 
Thou  art  watching,  and  thou  only, 

Above  the  earth's  snow  tomb  ; 
Thus  lovely,  and  thus  lonely, 

I  bless  thee  for  thy  bloom. 

Though  the  singing  rill  be  frozen, 
While  the  wind  forsakes  the  west ; 


IANDON'S  POEMS.  455 

Though  the  singing  birds  have  chosen 

Some  lone  and  silent  rest ; 
Like  thee,  one  sweet  thought  lingers 

In  a  heart  else  cold  and  dead, 
Though  the  summer's  flowers,  and  singers, 

And  sunshine  long  hath  fled : 

Tis  the  love  for  long  years  cherished, 

Yet  lingering,  lorn,  and  lone  ; 
Though  its  lovelier  lights  have  perished, 

And  its  earlier  hopes  are  flown. 
Though  a  weary  world  hath  bound  it, 

With  many  a  heavy  thrall ; 
And  the  cold  and  changed  surround  it, 

It  blossometh  o'er  all. 


KALENDRIA; 

A    PORT     IN    CILICIA. 

Do  you  see  yon  vessel  riding, 

Anchored  in  our  island  bay, 
Like  a  sleeping  sea-bird  biding 

For  the  morrow's  onward  way  ? 
See  her  white  wings  folded  round  her, 

As  she  rocks  upon  the  deep ; 
Slumber  with  a  spell  hath  bound  her, 

With  a  spell  of  peace  and  sleep. 


456  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Seems  she  not  as  if  enchanted 

To  that  lone  and  lovely  place, 
Henceforth  ever  to  be  haunted 

By  that  sweet  ship's  shadowy  grace  ? 
Yet,  come  here  again  to-morrow, 

Not  a  vestige  will  remain, 
Though  those  sweet  eyes  strain  in  sorrow, 

They  will  search  the  sea  in  vain. 

'Twas  for  this  I  bade  thee  meet  me, 
For  a  parting  word  and  tear  ; 

Other  lands  and  lips  may  greet  me  : 
None  will  ever  seem  so  dear. 

Other  lands— I  may  say,  other- 
Mine  again  I  shall  not  see ; 

I  have  left  mine  aged  mother, 
She  has  other  sons  than  me. 

Where  my  father's  bones  are  lying, 

There  mine  own  will  never  lie  ; 
Where  the  myrtle  groves  are  sighing, 

Soft  beneath  our  summer  sky. 
Mine  will  be  a  wilder  ending, 

Mine  will  be  a  wilder  grave, 
Where  the  shriek  and  shout  are  blending, 

Or  the  tempest  sweeps  the  wave. 

Mine  may  be  a  fate  more  lonely, 
In  some  sick  and  foreign  ward, 

Where  my  weary  eyes  meet  only 
Hired  nurse  or  sullen  guard. 

Dearest  maiden,  thou  art  weeping  ; 
Must  I  from  those  eyes  remove  ? 


POEMS,  457 


Hath  thy  heart  no  soft  pulse  sleeping 
Which  might  ripen  into  love  ? 

No  !  I  see  thy  brow  is  frozen, 

And  thy  look  is  cold  and  strange  ; 
Ah  !  when  once  the  heart  has  chosen, 

Well  I  know  it  cannot  change. 
And  I  know  that  heart  has  spoken, 

That  another's  it  must  be. 
Scarce  I  wish  that  pure  faith  broken, 

Though  the  falsehood  were  for  me. 

No  :  be  still  the  guileless  creature 

That  upon  my  boyhood  shone  ; 
Couldst  thou  change  thy  angel  nature, 

Half  my  faith  in  heaven  were  gone. 
Still  thy  memory  shall  be  cherished, 

Dear  as  it  is  now  to  me  ; 
When  all  gentler  thoughts  have  perished, 

One  shall  linger  yet  for  thee. 

Farewell  !  —  With  those  words  I  sever 

Every  tie  of  youth  and  home  ; 
Thou,  fair  isle  !  adieu  for  ever  ! 

See  a  boat  cuts  through  the  foam. 
Wind,  time,  tide,  alike  are  pressing, 

I  must  hasten  from  the  shore. 
One  first  kiss,  and  one  last  blessing  — 

Farewell,  love  !  we  meet  no  more. 


458) 


INFANTICIDE  IN  MADAGASCAR, 

A  LUXURY  of  summer  green 

Is  on  the  southern  plain, 
And  water-flags,  with  dewy  screen, 

Protect  the  ripening  grain. 
Upon  the  sky  is  not  a  cloud 

To  mar  the  golden  glow, 
Only  the  palm-tree  is  allowed 

To  fling  its  shade  below. 

And  silvery,  'mid  its  fertile  brakes, 

The  winding  river  glides, 
And  every  ray  in  heaven  makes 

Its  mirror  of  its  tides. 
And  yet  it  is  a  place  of  death — 

A  place  of  sacrifice  ; 
Heavy  with  childhood's  parting  breatn, 

Weary  with  childhood's  cries. 

The  mother  takes  her  little  child-  - 

Its  face  is  like  her  own ; 
The  cradle  of  her  choice  is  wild — 

Why  is  it  left  alone  ? 
The  trampling  of  the  buffalo 

Is  heard  among  the  reeds, 
And  sweeps  around  the  carrion  crow 

That  amid  carnage  feeds. 

O  !  outrage  upon  mother  Earth 
To  yonder  azure  sky ; 


459 


A  destined  victim  from  its  birth, 

The  child  is  left  to  die. 
We  shudder  that  such  crimes  disgrace 

E'en  yonder  savage  strand  ; 
Alas  !  and  hath  such  crime  no  trace 

Within  our  English  land  ? 

Pause,  ere  we  blame  the  savage  code 

That  such  strange  horror  keeps  ; 
Perhaps  within  her  sad  abode 

The  mother  sits  and  weeps, 
And  thinks  how  oft  those  eyelids  smiled 

Whose  close  she  may  not  see, 
And  says,  "  O,  would  to  God,  my  child, 

I  might  have  died  for  thee  !  " 

Such  law  of  bloodshed  to  annul 

Should  be  the  Christian's  toil ; 
May  not  such  law  be  merciful, 

To  that  upon  our  soil  ? 
Better  the  infant  eyes  should  close 

Upon  the  first  sweet  breath, 
Than  weary  for  their  last  repose, 

A  living  life  in  death ! 

Look  on  the  children  of  our  poor, 

On  many  an  English  child  : 
Better  that  it  had  died  secure 

By  yonder  river  wild. 
Flung  careless  on  the  waves  of  life, 

From  childhood's  earliest  time, 
They  struggle,  one  perpetual  strife, 

With  hunger  and  with  crime. 


460  LANDON'S   POEMS. 

Look  on  the  crowded  prison-gate -- 

Instructive  love  and  care 
In  early  life  had  saved  the  fate 

That  waits  on  many  there. 
Cold,  selfish,  shunning  care  and  cosij 

The  poor  are  left  unknown ; 
I  say,  for  every  soul  thus  lost, 

We  answer  with  our  own. 


ALEXANDER   AND  PHILIP. 

HE  stood  by  the  river's  side, 

A  conqueror  and  a  king,- 
None  matched  his  step  of  pride 

Amid  the  armed  ring. 
And  a  heavy  echo  rose  from  the  ground, 
As  a  thousand  warriors  gathered  round. 

And  the  morning  inarch  had  been  long. 

And  the  noontide  sun  was  high, 
And  weariness  bowed  down  the  strong, 

And  heat  closed  every  eye  ; 
And  the  victor  stood  by  the  river's  brim, 
Whose  coolness  seemed  but  made  for  him, 

The  cypress  spread  their  gloom 

Like  a  cloak  from  the  noontide  beam 

He  flung  back  his  dusty  plume, 
And  plunged  in  the  silver  stream ; 


t 

LANDON'S  POEMS.  461 

He  plunged  like  the  young  steed  fierce  and  wild, 
He  was  borne  away  like  the  feeble  child. 

They  took  the  king  to  his  tent 
From  the  river's  fatal  banks ; 
A  cry  of  terror  went 

Like  a  storm  through  the  Grecian  ranks : 
Was  this  the  fruit  of  their  glories  won, 
Was  this  the  death  for  Ammon's  son  ? 

Many  a  leech  heard  the  call, 
But  each  one  shrank  away  ; 
For  heavy  upon  all 

Was  the  weight  of  fear  that  day  : 
When  a  thought  of  treason,  a  word  of  deathj- 
Was  in  each  eye  and  on  each  breath. 

But  one  with  the  royal  youth 

Had  been  from  his  earliest  hour, 
And  he  knew  that  his  heart  was  truth, 

And  he  knew  that  his  hand  was  power ; 
He  gave  what  hope  his  skill  might  give, 
And  bade  him  trust  to  his  faith,  and  live. 

Alexander  took  the  cup, 

And  from  beneath  his  head  a  scroll, 
He  drank  the  liquor  up, 

And  bade  Philip  read  the  roll ; 
And  Philip  looked  on  the  page,  where  shame, 
Treason,  and  poison  were  named  with  his  name 

An  angry  flush  rose  on  his  brow, 
And  anger  darkened  his  eye 

39' 


462  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

What  1  have  done  I  would  do  again  now, 

If  you  trust  my  fidelity. 

The  king  watched  his  face,  he  felt  he  might  dare 
Trust  the  faith  that  was  written  there. 

Next  day  the  conqueror  rose 

From  a  greater  conqueror  free  ; 
And  again  he  stood  amid  those 

Who  had  died  his  death  to  see  : 
He  stood  there  proud  of  the  lesson  he  gave 
That  faith  and  trust  were  made  for  the  brave. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CHILLON. 

FAIR  lake,  thy  lovely  and  thy  haunted  shore 

Has  only  echoes  for  the  poet's  lute  ; 

None  may  tread  there  save  with  unsandalled  foot, 
Submissive  to  the  great  that  went  before, 
Filled  with  the  mighty  memories  of  yore. 

And  yet  how  mournful  are  the  records  there — 

Captivity,  and  exile,  and  despair, 
Did  they  endure  who  now  endure  no  more. 

The  patriot,  the  woman,  and  the  bard, 
Whose  names  thy  winds  and  waters  bear  along ; 

What  did  the  world  bestow  for  their  reward 
But  suffering,  sorrow,  bitterness,  and  wrong  ? — 

Genius ! — a  hard  and  weary  lot  is  thine — 
j  The  heart  thy  fuel — and  the  grave  thy  shrine. 


(463) 


THE  RIVER   WEAR. 

1       ' 

COME  back,  come  back,  my  childhood, 

To  the  old  familiar  spot, 
Whose  wild  flowers,  and  whose  wild  wooi 

Have  never  been  forgot. 
It  is  the  shining  river, 

With  the  bulrush  by  its  tide, 
Where  I  filled  my  green  rush  quiver 

With  arrows  at  its  side  ; 

I  j 
i  j 

And  deemed  that  knightly  glories 

Were  honored  as  of  old  ; 
My  head  was  filled  with  stories 

My  aged  nurse  had  told. 
The  Douglas  and  the  Percy 

Alike  were  forced  to  yield  ; 
I  had  but  little  mercy 

Upon  the  battle-field. 

Ah !  folly  of  the  fancies, 

That  haunt  our  childhood's  hour, 
And  yet  those  old  romances 

On  after  life  have  power ; 
When  the  weight  appears  too  weary 

With  which  we  daily  strive, 
'Mid  the  actual  and  the  dreary, 

How  much  they  keep  alive ! 

How  often,  amid  hours 
By  life  severely  tried, 


464  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Have  I  thought  on  those  wild  flowers 
On  the  sweet  Wear's  silver  tide. 

Each  ancient  recollection 

Brought  something  to  subdue  ; 

I  lived  in  old  affection, 

And  felt  the  heart  was  true. 

I  am  come  again  with  summer, 

It  is  lovely  to  behold, 
Will  it  welcome  the  new  comer, 

As  it  seemed  to  do  of  old  ? 
Within  those  dark  green  covers, 

Whose  shade  is  downward  cast, 
How  many  a  memory  hovers 

Whose  light  is  from  the  past ! 

I  see  the  bright  trout  springing, 

Where  the  wave  is  dark  yet  clear, 
And  a  myriad  flies  are  winging, 

As  if  to  tempt  him  near. 
With  the  lucid  waters  blending, 

The  willow  shade  yet  floats, 
From  beneath  whose  quiet  bending 

I  used  to  launch  my  boats. 

Over  the  sunny  meadows, 

I  watch  them  as  of  old, 
Flit  soft  and  sudden  shadows 

That  leave  a  greener  gold ; 
And  a  faint  south  wind  is  blowing 

Amid  the  cowslip  beds, 
A  deeper  glow  bestowing 

To  the  light  around  their  heads. 


LAND  OK' S    POEMS.  465 

Farewell,  sweet  river !  ever 

Wilt  thou  be  dear  to  me ; 
I  can  repay  thee  never 

One  half  I  owe  to  thee. 
Around  thy  banks  are  lying 

Nature's  diviner  part, 
And  thou  dost  keep  undying 

My  childhood  at  my  heart. 


DEATH  OF  LOUIS  OF  BOURBON, 

BISHOP    OF    LIEGE. 

How  actual,  through  the  lapse  of  years, 
That  scene  of  death  and  dread  appears, 
The  maiden  shrouded  in  her  veil, 
The  burghers  half  resolved,  half  pale ; 
And  the  young  archer  leant  prepared, 
With  dagger  hidden,  but  still  bared — 
Are  real,  as  if  that  stormy  scene 
In  our  own  troubled  life  had  been. 
Such  is  the  magic  of  the  page 
That  brings  again  another  age. 
Such,  Scott,  the  charms  thy  pages  cast, 
O,  mighty  master  of  the  past ! 


466) 


ETTY'S  ROVER. 

THOU  lovely  and  thou  happy  child, 

Ah,  how  I  envy  thee  ! 
I  should  be  glad  to  change  our  state, 

If  such  a  thing  might  be. 

And  yet  it  is  a  lingering  joy 

To  watch  a  thing  so  fair, 
To  think  that  in  our  weary  life 

Such  pleasant  moments  are. 

A  little  monarch  thou  art  there, 

And  of  a  fairy  realm, 
Without  a  foe  to  overthow, 

A  care  to  overwhelm. 

Thy  world  is  in  thy  own  glad  will, 

And  in  each  fresh  delight, 
And  in  thy  unused  heart,  which  makes 

Its  own,  its  golden  light 

With  no  misgivings  in  thy  past, 

Thy  future  with  no  fear ; 
The  present  circles  thee  around, — 

An  angel's  atmosphere. 

How  little  is  the  happiness 
That  will  content  a  child — 

A  favorite  dog,  a  sunny  fruit, 
A  blossom  growing  wild. 


467 


A  word  will  fill  the  little  heart 
With  pleasure  and  with  pride  ; 

It  is  a  harsh,  a  cruel  thing, 
That  such  can  be  denied. 

And  yet  how  many  weary  hours 
Those  joyous  creatures  know; 

How  much  of  sorrow  and  restraint 
They  to  their  elders  owe  ! 

How  much  they  suffer  from  our  faults ! 

How  much  from  our  mistakes  ! 
How  often,  too,  mistaken  zeal 

An  infant's  misery  makes ! 

We  overrule,  and  overteach, 

We  curb  and  we  confine, 
And  put  the  heart  to  school  too  soon 

To  learn  our  narrow  line. 

No  ;  only  taught  by  love  to  love, 

Seems  childhood's  natural  task ; 
Affection,  gentleness,  and  hope, 
"  Are  all  its  brief  years  ask. 

Enjoy  thy  happiness,  sweet  child, 
With  careless  heart  and  eye  ; 

Enjoy  those  few  bright  hours  which  now, 
E'en  now,  are  hurrying  by ; — 

And  let  the  gazer  on  thy  face 
Grow  glad  with  watching  thee, 

And  better,  kinder ;— such  at  least 
Its  influence  on  me. 


(468) 


DISENCHANTMENT. 

Do  not  ask  me  why  I  loved  him, 

Love's  cause  is  to  love  unknown ; 
Faithless  as  the  past  has  proved  him, 

Once  his  heart  appeared  mine  own. 
Do  not  say  he  did  not  merit 

All  my  fondness,  all  my  truth  ; 
Those  in  whom  love  dwells,  inherit 

Every  dream  that  haunted  youth. 

He  might  not  be  all  I  dreamed  him, 

Noble,  generous,  gifted,  true, 
Not  the  less  I  fondly  deemed  him, 

All  those  flattering  visions  drew. 
All  the  hues  of  old  romances 

By  his  actual  self  grew  dim ; 
Bitterly  I  mock  the  fancies 

That  once  found  their  lifeyhim. 
. 

From  the  hour  by  him  enchanted, 

From  the  moment  when  we  met, 
Henceforth  with  one  image  haunted, 

Life  may  never  more  forget 
All  my  nature  changed — his  being 

Seemed  the  only  source  of  mine, 
Fond  heart,  hadst  tliou  no  foreseeing 

Thy  sad  future  to  divine  9 

Once,  upon  myself  relying, 

All  I  asked  were  words  and  thought ; 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  469 

Many  hearts  to  mine  replying, 

Owned  the  music  that  I  brought 
Eager,  spiritual,  and  lonely 

Visions  filled  the  fairy  hour, 
Deep  with  love — though  love  was  only 

Not  a  presence,  but  a  power. 

But  from  that  first  hour  I  met  thee, 

All  caught  actual  life  from  you, 
Alas !  how  can  I  forget  thee, 

Thou  who  mad'st  the  fancied  trtte  ' 
Once  my  wide  world  was  ideal, 

Fair  it  was — ah !  very  fair : 
Wherefore  hast  thou  made  it  real  ? 

Wherefore  is  thy  image  there  ? 

Ah !  no  more  to  me  is  given 

Fancy's  far  and  fairy  birth ; 
Chords  upon  my  lute  are  riven, 

Never  more  to  sound  on  earth. 
Once,  sweet  music  could  it  borrow 

From  a  look,  a  word,  a  tone ; 
I  could  paint  another's  sorrow — 

Now  I  think  but  of  mine  own. 

Life's  dark  waves  have  lost  the  glitter 

Which  at  morning-tide  they  wore, 
And  the  well  within  is  bitter ; 

Naught  its  sweetness  may  restore  : 
For  I  know  how  vainly  given 

Life's  most  precious  things  may  be, 
Love  that  might  have  looked  on  heaven, 

Even  as  it  looked  on  thee. 

40 


470  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Ah,  farewell !— with  that  word  dying, 

Hope  and  love  must  perish  too : 
For  thy  sake  themselves  denying, 

What  is  truth  with  thee  untrue  ? 
Farewell ! — 'tis  a  dreary  sentence, 

Like  the  death-doom  of  the  grave, 
May  it  wake  in  thee  repentance, 

Stinging  when  too  late  to  save  ! 


THE  HINDOO  GIRL'S  SONG. 

FLOAT  on — float  on — my  haunted  bark, 

Above  the  midnight  tide  ; 
Bear  softly  o'er  the  waters  dark 

The  hopes  that  with  thee  glide. 

Float  on — float  on — thy  freight  is  flowers, 

And  every  flower  reveals 
The  dreaming  of  my  lonely  hours, 

The  hope  my  spirit  feels. 

Float  on— float  on— thy  shining  lamp, 

The  light  of  love  is  there  ; 
If  lost  beneath  the  waters  damp, 

That  love  must  then  despair. 

Float  on— beneath  the  moonlight  float, 

The  sacred  billows  o'er  : 
Ah,  some  kind  spirit  guards  my  boat, 

For  it  has  gained  the  shore. 


(471 


SASSOOR,  IN  THE  DECCAN. 

IT  is  Christmas,  and  the  sunshine 

Lies  golden  on  the  fields. 
And  flowers  of  white  and  purple, 

Yonder  fragrant  creeper  yields. 

Like  the  plumes  of  some  bold  warrior, 

The  cocoa-tree  on  high, 
Lifts  aloft  its  feathery  branches, 

Amid  the-  deep  blue  sky. 

From  yonder  shadowy  peepul, 

The  pale  fair  lilac  dove, 
Like  music  from  a  temple, 

Sings  a  song  of  grief  and  love. 

i 

The  earth  is  bright  with  blossoms, 

And  a  thousand  jewelled  wings, 
'Mid  the  green  boughs  of  the  tamarind 

A  sudden  sunshine  flings. 

For  the  East  is  earth's  first-born, 

And  hath  a  glorious  dower, 
As  nature  there  had  lavished 

Her  beauty  and  her  power. 


And  yet  I  pine  for  England, 
For  my  own — my  distant  home ; 

My  heart  is  in  that  island, 
Where'er  my  steps  may  roam. 


472  LANDON'ri    POEMS. 

It  is  merry  there  at  Christmas — 
We  have  no  Christmas  here  ; 
(*Tis  a  weary  thing,  a  summer 
That  lasts  throughout  the  year. 

j  I  remember  how  the  banners 

Hung  round  our  ancient  hall, 
Bound  with  wreaths  of  shining  holly, 
Brave  winter's  coronal. 

And  above  each  rusty  helmet 
Waved  a  new  and  cheering  plume, 

A  branch  of  crimson  berries, 
And  the  latest  rose  in  bloom. 

And  the  white  and  pearly  misletoe 
Hung  half  concealed  o'er  head, 

I  remember  one  sweet  maiden, 
Whose  cheek  it  dyed  with  red. 

The  morning  waked  with  carols, 
A  young  and  joyous  band 

Of  small  and  rosy  songsters, 
Came  tripping  hand  in  hand. 

And  sang  beneath  our  windows, 
Just  as  the  round  red  sun 

Began  to  melt  the  hoar-frost, 
And  the  clear  cold  day  begun. 

And  at  night  the  aged  harper 

Played  his  old  tunes  o'er  and  o'er; 

From  sixteen  up  to  sixty, 

All  were  dancing  on  that  floor 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  473 

Those  were  the  days  of  childhood, 

The  buoyant  and  the  bright ; 
When  hope  was  life's  sweet  sovereign, 

And  the  heart  and  step  were  light 

I  shall  come  again — a  stranger 

To  all  that  once  I  knew, 
For  the  hurried  steps  of  manhood 

From  life's  flowers  have  dashed  the  dew. 

I  yet  may  ask  their  welcome, 

And  return  from  whence  I  came  ; 
But  a  change  is  wrought  within  me, 

They  will  not  seem  the  same. 

For  my  spirits  are  grown  weary, 

And  my  days  of  youth  are  o'er, 
And  the  mirth  of  that  glad  season 

Is  what  I  can  feel  no  more. 

40* 


(474) 


THE  DESERTER. 

'TWAS  a  sweet  summer  morn,  the  lark  had  just 
Sprung  from  the  clover  bower  around  her  nest, 
And  poured  her  blithe  song  to  the  clouds  :  the  sun 
Shed  his  first  crimson  o'er  the  dark  gray  walls 
Of  the  old  church,  and  stained  the  sparkling  panes 
Of  ivy-covered  windows.     The  damp  grass, 
That  waved  in  wild  luxuriance  round  the  graves, 
Was  white  with  dew,  but  early  steps  had  been 
And  left  a  fresh  green  trace  round  yonder  tomb  : 
'Twas  a  plain  stone,  but  graven  with  a  name 
That  many  stopped  to  read — a  soldier's  name — 
And  two  were  kneeling  by  it,  one  who  had 
Been  weeping ;  she  was  widow  to  the  brave 
Upon  whose  quiet  bed  her  tears  were  falling. 
From  off  her  cheek  the  rose  of  youth  had  fled, 
But  beauty  still  was  there,  that  softened  grief, 
Whose  bitterness  is  gone,  but  which  was  felt 
Too  deeply  for  forgetfulness  ;  her  look, 
Fraught  with  high  feelings  and  intelligence, 
And  such  as  might  beseem  the  Roman  dame 
Whose  children  died  for  liberty,  was  made 
More  soft  and  touching  by  the  patient  smile 
Which  piety  had  given  the  unearthly  brow, 
Which  Guido  draws  when  he  would  form  a  saint 
Whose  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven,  but  who  has  yet 
Some  earthly  feelings  binding  them  to  life. 
Her  arm  was  leant  upon  a  graceful  youth, 
The  hope,  the  comfort  of  her  widowhood ; 
He  was  departing  from  her,  and  she  led 


LANDO.N'S  POEMS.  475 

The  youthful  soldier  to  his  father's  tomb- 
As  in  the  visible  presence  of  the  dead 
She  gave  her  farewell  blessing ;  and  her  voice 
Lost  its  so  tremulous  accents  as  she  bade 
Her  child  tread  in  that  father's  steps,  and  told 
How  brave,  how  honored  he  had  been.     But  when 
She  did  entreat  him  to  remember  all, 
Her  hopes  were  centred  in  him,  that  he  was 
The  stay  of  her  declining  years,  that  he 
Might  be  the  happiness  of  her  old  age, 
Or  bring  her  down  with  sorrow  to  the  grave, 
Her  words  grew  inarticulate,  and  sobs 
Alone  found  utterance  ;  and  he,  whose  cheek 
Was  flushed  with  eagerness,  whose  ardent  eye 
Gave  animated  promise  of  the  fame 
That  would  be  his,  whose  ear  already  rang 
With  the  loud  trumpet's  war-song,  felt  these  dreams 
Fade  for  a  moment,  and  almost  renounced 
The  fields  he  panted  for,  since  they  must  cost 
Such  tears  as  these.   The  churchyard  left,  they  passed 
Down  by  a  hawthorn  hedge,  where  the  sweet  May 
Had  showered  its  white  luxuriance,  intermixed 
With  crimson  clusters  of  the  wilding  rose, 
And  linked  with  honeysuckle.     O'er  the  path 
Many  an  ancient  oak  and  stately  elm 
Spread  its  green  canopy.     How  Edward's  eye 
Lingered  on  each  familiar  sight,  as  if 
Even  to  things  inanimate  he  would  bid 
A  last  farewell !     They  reached  the  cottage  gate, 
His  horse  stood  ready ;  many,  too,  were  there, 
Who  came  to  say  good-bye,  and  kindly  wish 
To  the  young  soldier  health  and  happiness. 
[t  is  a  sweet,  albeit  most  painful,  feeling 
To  know  we  are  regretted.     "  Farewell "  said 


476  LONDON'S  POEMH. 

And  oft  repeated,  one  last  wild  embrace 
Given  to  his  pale  mother,  who  stood  there, 
Her  cold  hands  pressed  upon  a  brow  as  cold, 
In  all  the  bursting  heart's  full  agony — 
One  last,  last  kiss, — he  sprang  upon  his  horse 
And  urged  his  utmost  speed  with  spur  and  rein. 
He  is  past    ...     out  of  sight     .     . 

The  muffled  drum  is  rolling,  and  the  low 

Notes  of  the  death-march  float  upon  the  wind, 

And  stately  steps  are  pacing  round  that  square 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  ;  but  every  brow 

Is  darkened  with  emotion,  and  stern  eyes, 

That  looked  unshrinking  on  the  face  of  death, 

When  met  in  battle,. are  now  moist  with  tears. 

The  silent  ring  is  formed,  and  in  the  midst 

Stands  the  deserter !     Can  this  be  the  same, 

The  young,  the  gallant  Edward  ?  and  are  these 

The  laurels  promised  in  his  early  dreams  ? 

Those  fettered  hands,  this  doom  of  open  shame . 

Alas  !  for  young  and  passionate  spirits  !     Soon 

False  lights  will  dazzle.     He  had  madly  joined 

The  rebel  banner !     O  'twas  pride  to  link 

His  fate  with  Erin's  patriot  few,  to  fight 

For  liberty  or  the  grave  !     But  he  was  now 

A  prisoner :  yet  there  he  stood,  as  firm 

As  though  his  feet  were  not  upon  the  tomb : 

His  cheek  was  pale  as  marble,  and  as  cold ; 

But  his  lip  trembled  not,  and  his  dark  eyes 

Glanced  proudly   round.      But  when  they  bared  his 

breast 

For  the  death-shot,  and  took  a  portrait  thence, 
He  clenched  his  hands,  and  gasped,  and  one  deep  sob 
Of  agony  burst  from  him  ;  and  he  hid 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  477 

His  face  awhile — his  mother's  look  was  there. 
He  could  not  steel  his  soul  when  he  recalled 
The  bitterness  of  her  despair.     It  passed — 
That  moment  of  wild  anguish  ;  he  knelt  down ; 
That  sunbeam  shed  its  glory  over  one, 
Young,  proud,  and  brave,  nerved  in  deep  energy, 
The  next  fell  over  cold  and  bloody  clay. 

There  is  a  deep  voiced  sound  from  yonder  vale, 
Which  ill  accords  with  the  sweet  music  made 
By  the  light  birds  nestling  by  those  green  elms  ; 
And,  a  strange  contrast  to  the  blossomed  thorns, 
Dark  plumes  are  waving,  and  a  silent  hearse 
Is  winding  through  that  lane.     They  told  it  bore 
A  widow,  who  died  of  a  broken  heart : 
Her  child,  her  soul's  last  treasure, — he  had  been 
Shot  for  desertion ! 


CONISTON   WATER. 

THOU  lone  and  lovely  water,  would  I  were 

A  dweller  by  thy  deepest  solitude  ! 

How  weary  am  I  of  my  present  life, 

Its  falsehoods,  and  its  fantasies — its  noise 

And  the  unkindly  hurry  of  the  crowd, 

'Mid  whom  my  days  are  numbered !  I  would  watch 

The  tremulous  vibration  of  the  rays 

The  moon  sends  down  to  kiss  thy  quiet  waves  ; 


I 

478  LANDON'S    POEMS. 


And  when  they  died,  wish  I  could  die  like  them, 
Melting  upon  the  still  and  silvery  air :   • 
Or  when  the  autumn  scatters  the  wan  leaves 
Like  ghosts,  I'd  meditate  above  their  fall, 
And  say  "  So  perish  all  our  earthly  hopes." 
So  is  the  heart  left  desolate  and  bare, 
And  on  us  falls  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 
Before  we  rest  within  it. 


EXPECTATION. 

SHE  looked  from  out  the  window 

With  long  and  asking  gaze, 
From  the  gold-clear  light  of  morning 

To  the  twilight's  purple  haze. 
Cold  and  pale  the  planets  shone, 
Still  the  girl  kept  gazing  on. 
From  her  white  and  weary  forehead 

Droopeth  the  dark  hair, 
Heavy  with  the  dews  of  evening, 

Heavier  with  her  care  ; 
Falling  as  the  shadows  fall, 
Till  flung  round  her  like  a  pall. 

When  from  the  carved  lattice 

First  she  leant  to  look, 
Her  bright  face  was  written 

Like  some  pleasant  book  • 


LANDON'S   POEMS.  479 

Her  warm  cheek  the  red  air  quaffed, 
And  her  eyes  looked  out  and  laughed. 
She  is  leaning  back  now  languid, 

And  her  cheek  is  white  ; 
Only  on  the  drooping  eyelash 

Glistens  tearful  light. 
Color,  sunshine  hours  are  gone, 

Yet  the  lady  watches  on. 

Human  heart,  this  history 

Is  thy  faded  lot ; 
Even  such  thy  watching, 

For  what  cometh  not, 
Till  with  anxious  waiting  dull, 
Round  thee  fades  the  beautiful, 
Still  thou  seekest  on,  though  weary, 

Seeking  still  in  vain: 
Daylight  deepens  into  twilight, 

What  has  been  thy  gain  ? 
Death  and  night  are  closing  round, 
All  that  thou  hast  sought  unfound. 


WARNING. 

PRAY  thee,  maiden,  hear  him  not ! 
Take  thou  warning  by  my  lot ; 
Read  my  scroll,  and  mark  thou  all 
I  can  tell  thee  of  thy  thrall. 


480  LANDOJV'S    POEMS. 

Thou  hast  owned  that  youthful  breast 

Treasures  its  most  dangerous  guest; 

Thou  hast  owned  that  love  is  there : 

Though  no  features  he  may  wear, 

Such  as  would  a  saint  deceive, 

Win  a  skeptic  to  believe, 

Only  for  a  time  that  brow 

Will  seem  what  'tis  seeming  now. 

I  have  said,  heart,  be  content ! 

For  Love's  power  o'er  thee  is  spent 

That  I  love  not  now,  O  true ! — 

I  have  bade  such  dreams  adieu : 

Therefore  deemest  thou  my  heart 

Saw  them  tranquilly  depart ; 

That  they  past,  nor  left  behind, 

Wreck  and  ruin  in  my  mind. 

Thou  art  in  the  summer  hour 

Of  first  passion's  early  power ; 

I  am  in  the  autumn  day 

Of  its  darkness  and  decay. 

— Seems  thine  idol  now  to  thee 

Even  as  a  divinity  ? 

Such  the  faith  that  I  too  held ; 

Not  the  less  am  I  compelled 

All  my  heart-creed  to  gainsay, 

Own  my  idol  gilded  clay, 

And  yet  pine  to  dream  again 

What  I  know  is  worse  than  vain. 

Ay,  I  did  love,  and  how  well, 

Let  thine  own  fond  weakness  tell : 

Still  upon  the  softened  mood 

Of  my  twilight  solitude, 

Still  upon  my  midnight  tear 

Rises  image  all  too  dear 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  481 

*       Dark  and  starry  eyes,  whose  light 
Make  the  glory  of  the  night ; 
Brow  like  ocean's  morning  foam, 
For  each  noble  thought  a  home. 
Well  such  temple's  fair  outline 
Seemed  the  spirit's  fitting  shrine. 
— Is  he  hero,  who  hath  won 
Fields  we  shrink  to  think  upon  ? 
Patriot,  on  whose  gifted  tongue 
Senates  in  their  wonder  hung  ? 
Sage,  before  whose  gifted  eyes 
Nature  spreads  her  mysteries  ? 
Bard,  to  whose  charmed  lute  is  given 
All  that  earth  can  breathe  of  heaven  ? — 
Seems  thy  lover  these  to  thee  ? 
Even  more  seemed  mine  to  me. 
Now,  my  fond  belief  is  past ; 
Strange,  methinks,  if  thine  should  last 
"  Be  content,  thou  lovest  not  now : " 
Free,  thou  sayest, — dream'st  thou  how  ? 
Loathing  wouldst  thou  shun  dismayed 
Freedom  by  such  ransom  paid. 
— Girl,  for  thee  I'll  lay  aside 
Veil  of  smiles  and  mask  of  pride ; 
Shrouds  that  only  ask  of  Fate 
Not  to  seem  so  desolate. 
— I  am  young — but  age's  snow 
Hides  not  colder  depths  below  ; 
I  am  gay, — but  such  a  light 
Shines  upon  the  grave  by  night- 
Yet  mine  is  a  common  tale  ; 
Hearts  soon  changed,  and  vows  were  frail; 
Each  one  blamed  the  other's  deed, 
Yet  both  felt  they  were  agreed 

41 


482  LANDOJS'S  POEMS. 

Ne'er  again  might  either  prove 
Those  sweet  fallacies  of  love. 
Still  for  what  so  vain  I  hold 
Is  my  wasted  heart  grown  cold. 
Can  hopes  be  again  believed, 
When  their  sweetest  have  deceived  ? 
Can  affection's  chain  be  trusted, 
When  its  dearest  links  have  rusted  ? 
Can  life's  dreams  again  be  cherished, 
When  its  dearest  one's  have  perished  ? 
I  know  Love  will  not  endure  ; — 
Nothing  now  to  me  seems  sure. 
— Maiden,  by  the  thousand  tears, 
Lava  floods  on  my  first  years  ; 
By  the  nights,  when  burning  pain 
Fed  upon  my  heart  and  brain ; 
By  the  wretched  days  now  past, 
By  the  weary  days  to  last ; 
Be  thou  warned,  for  still  the  same 
Is  Love,  beneath  whatever  name. 
Keep  thy  fond  faith  like  a  thing 
Where  Time  never  change  may  bring. 
Vow  thee  to  thy  idol's  shrine, — 
Then,  maiden !  read  thy  fate  in  mine. 


(483 


THE  VISIONARY. 

I  PRAY  thee  do  not  speak  to  me 

As  you  are  speaking  now  ; 
It  brings  the  color  to  my  cheek, 

The  shadow  to  my  brow. 

I 

I  pray  thee  do  not  look  at  me, 

I  cannot  bear  that  gaze  ; 
Though  downcast  be  my  eye,  it  still 

Too  much  my  heart  betrays. 

I  feel  the  past  is  written  there, 

The  past,  long  since  gone  by — 
The  past,  where  feelings, '  ancies,  hopes, 

Alike  unburied  lie  ; — 

Unburied,  for  their  restless  ghosts 

Still  haunt  the  sad  domain, 
And  mockeries  of  their  former  selves 

Come  thronging  back  again. 

But  changed  as  I  and  thou  art  changed, 

Or  rather  me  alone, 
I  never  had  your  heart — but  mine, 

Alas  !  Avas  all  your  own. 

O,  magic  of  a  tone  and  word, 

Loved  all  too  long  and  well, 
I  cannot  close  my  heart  and  ear 

Against  their  faithless  spell — 


484  LANDON'S  POEMS 

I  know  them  false,  I  know  them  vain, 

And  yet  I  listen  on — 
And  say  them  to  myself  again, 

Long  after  thou  art  gone. 

J  make  myself  my  own  deceit, 

I  know  it  is  a  dream, 
But  one  that  from  my  earliest  youth 

Has  colored  life's  deep  stream. — 

Frail  colors  flung  in  vain,  but  yet 
A  thousand  times  more  dear 

Than  any  actual  happiness 
That  ever  brightened  here. 

The  dear,  the  long,  the  dreaming  hours 
That  I  have  passed  with  thee, 

When  thou  1  idst  not  a  single  thought 
Of  how  thju  wert  with  me — 

I  heard  thy  voice — I  spoke  again — 
I  gazed  upon  thy  face  ; 


And  never  scene  of  breathing  life 

. 


Could  leave  a  deeper  trace, 


Than  all  that  fancy  conjured  up, 
And  made  thee  look  and  say, 

Till  I  have  loathed  reality, 

That  chased  such  dream  away. 

Now,  out  upon  this  foolishness, 
Thy  heart  it  is  not  mine  ; 

And,  knowing  this,  how  can  I  waste 
My  very  soul  on  thine  ? 


485 


Alas  !  I  have  no  power  to  choose, 

Love  is  not  at  my  will  ; 
I  say  I  must  be  careless,  cold, 

But  find  I  love  thee  still. 

I  think  upon  my  wasted  life 

And  on  my  wasted  heart, 
And  turn,  ashamed  and  sorrowful, 

From  what  will  not  depart 

Thy  haunting  -influence,  how  it  mocks 

My  efforts  to  forget  ! 
The  stamp  love  only  seals  but  once 

Upon  my  life  is  set. 

I  hear  from  others  gentle  words 

I  scarcely  heed  the  while  ; 
Listened  to,  but  with  weariness, 

Forgotten  with  a  smile. 

But  thine,  though  chance  and  usual  words 

Are  treasured,  as  we  keep 
Things  lovely,  precious,  and  beloved, 

O  er  which  we  watch  and  weep. 

I  scarcely  wish  to  see  thee  now, 

It  is  too  dear  a  joy  : 
It  is  such  perfect  happiness, 

It  must  have  some  alloy. 

I  dream  of  no  return  from  thee  — 

Enough  for  me  to  love  ; 
I  brood  above  my  silent  heart, 

As  o'er  its  nest  the  dove 


486  LANDON'S  IJO:-:.M:S. 

But  speak  not,  look  not,  mock  ma  nut 
With  light  and  careless  words  ; 

It  wounds  me  to  the  heart,  it  jars 
My  spirit's  finest  chords. 

I'll  not  forget  thee  ; — let  me  dream 

About  thee  as  before. 
But,  farewell,  dearest ;  yes,  farewell, 

For  we  must  meet  no  more. 


THE  COQUETTE. 

SHE  danced  upon  the  waters, 

Beneath  the  morning  sun, 
Of  all  old  Ocean's  daughters 

The  very  fairest  one. 
An  azure  zone  comprest  her 

Round  her  white  and  slender  side, 
For  her  gallant  crew  had  drest  her 

Like  a  beauty  and  a  bride. 

She  wore  her  trappings  gaily, 

As  a  lady  ought  to  do, 
And  the  waves  which  kissed  her  daily 

Proud  of  their  mistress  grew. 
They  clung  like  lovers  round  her, 

And  bathed  her  airy  feet ; 
With  white  foam- wreaths  they  bound  her, 

To  grace  her,  and  to  greet. 


LANDON  S    POEMS. 

She  cut  the  blue  wave,  scorning 

Our  dull  and  common  land  ; 
To  the  rosy  airs  of  morning, 

We  saw  her  sails  expand. 
Ho\v  graceful  was  their  drooping 

Ere  the  winds  began  to  blow, 
While  the  gay  Coquette  was  stooping 

To  her  clear  green  glass  below  ! 


How  gallant  was  their  sweeping, 

While  they  swelled  upon  the  air ; 
As  the  winds  were  in  their  keeping, 

And  they  knew  they  were  so  fair  ' 
A  shower  of  spray  before  her, 

A  silvery  wake  behind, 
A  cloud  of  canvass  o'er  her, 

She  sprang  before  the  wind. 


She  was  so  loved,  the  fairy, 

Like  a  mistress  or  a  child  ; 
For  she  was  so  trim  and  airy, 

So  buoyant  and  so  wild. 
And  though  so  young  a  rover, 

She  knew  what  life  could  be  ; 
For  she  had  wandered  over 

Full  many  a  distant  sea. 


One  night,  'twas  in  September, 

A  mist  arose  on  high  ; 
Not  the  oldest  could  remember 

Such  a  dense  and  darkened  sky 


487 


488  LATOON'S  POEMS. 

And  small  dusk  birds  came  hovering 

The  gloomy  waters  o'er ; 
The  waves  mocked  their  sweet  sovereign, 

And  would  obey  no  more. 


There  was  no  wind  to  move  them, 

So  the  sails  were  furled  and  fast, 
And  the  gallant  flag  above  them 

Drooped  down  upon  the  mast. 
All  was  still  as  if  death's  shadow 

Were  resting  on  the  grave  ; 
And  the  sea,  like  some  dark  meadow, 

Had  not  one  rippling  wave : 


When  the  sky  was  rent  asunder 

With  a  flood  of  crimson  light, 
And  one  single  burst  of  thunder 

Aroused  the  silent  night 
'Twas  the  signal  for  their  waking ! 

The  angry  winds  arose, 
Like  giant  captives  breaking 

The  chain  of  forced  repose. 


Yet  bravely  did  she  greet  them, 

Those  jarring  Avinds  and  waves  ; 
Ready  with  scorn  to  meet  them, 

They  who  had  been  her  slaves. 
She  faced  the  angry  heaven, 

Our  bold  and  fair  Coquette  ; 
Her  graceful  sides  are  riven, 

But  she  will  brave  it  yet. 


LANDOK'S  POEMS.  489 

Like  the  old  oak  of  the  forest, 

Down  comes  the  thundering  mast ; 
Her  need  is  at  the  sorest, 

She  shudders  in  the  blast. 
Hark  to  that  low  quick  gushing  ! 

The  hold  has  sprung  a-leak  ; 
On  their  prey  the  waves  are  rushing 

The  valiant  one  grows  weak. 

One  cry,  and  all  is  quiet, 

There  is  nor  sight  nor  sound ; 
Save  the  fierce  gale  at  its  riot, 

And  the  angry  waters  round. 
The  morn  may  come  with  weeping, 

And  the  storm  may  cease  to  blow ; 
But  the  fair  Coquette  is  sleeping 

A  thousand  fathoms  low. 


THE  ORPHAN  BALLAD  SINGERS, 

O,  WEARY,  weary  are  our  feet, 

And  weary,  weary  is  our  way  : 
Through  many  a  long  and  crowded  street 

We've  wandered  mournfully  to-day. 
My  little  sister  she  is  pale  ; 

She  is  too  tender  and  too  young 
To  bear  the  autumn's  sullen  gale, 

And  all  day  long  the  child  has  sung. 


190  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

She  was  our  mother's  favorite  child, 

Who  loved  her' for  her  eyes  of  blue, 
And  she  is  delicate  and  mild, — 

She  cannot  do  what  I  can  do. 
She  never  met  her  father's  eyes, 

.A '.though  they  were  so  like  her  own, 
In  some  far  distant  sea  he  lies, 

A  father  to  his  child  unknown. 


The  first  time  that  she  lisped  his  name, 

A  little  playful  thing  was  she ; 
How  proud  we  were, — yet  that  night  came 

The  tale  how  he  had  sunk  at  sea. 
My  mother  never  raised  her  head  ; 

How  strange,  how  white,  how  cold  she  grew ' 
It  was  a  broken  heart  they  said — 

I  wish  our  hearts  were  broken  too. 


We  have  no  home — we  have  no  friends : 

They  said  our  home  no  more  was  ours  ; 
Our  cottage  where  the  ash-tree  bends, 

The  garden  we  had  filled  with  flowers, 
The  sounding  shell  our  father  brought, 

That  we  might  hear  the  sea  at  home ; 
Our  bees,  that  in  the  summer  wrought 

The  winter's  golden  honeycomb. 


We  wandered  forth  'mid  wind  and  rain 
No  shelter  from  the  open  sky  ; 

I  only  wish  to  see  again 

My  mother's  grave,  and  rest  and  die. 


LANDON'S  POKJIS.  4;>J 


Alas  !  it  is  a  weary  thing 

To  sing  our  ballads  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
The  songs  we  used  at  home  to  sing  — 

Alas  '  we  have  a  home  no  more  ! 


THE  NIZAM'S  DAUGHTER. 

SHE  is  as  yet  a  child  in  years, 

Twelve  springs  are  on  her  face, 
Yet  in  her  slender  form  appears 

The  woman's  perfect  grace. 
Her  silken  hair,  that  glossy  black, 

But  only  to  be  found 
There,  or  upon  the  raven's  back, 

Falls  sweeping  to  the  ground. 

'Tis  parted  in  two  shining  braids 

With  silver  and  with  gold, 
And  one  large  pearl  by  contrast  aids 

The  darkness  of  each  fold. 
And,  for  she  is  so  young,  that  flowers 

Seem  natural  to  her  now, 
There  wreaths  the  champac's  snowy  showers 

Around  her  sculptured  brow. 


Close  to  her  throat  the  silvery  vest 
By  shining  clasps  is  bound ; 

Scarce  may  her  graceful  shape  be 
'Mid  drapery  floating  round. 


LANDON'S    I'OF.MS. 


But  the  small  curve  of  that  veined  throat, 
Like  marble,  hut  more  warm, 

The  fairy  foot  and  hand  denote 
How  perfect  is  the  form. 


Upon  the  ankle  and  the  wrist 

There  is  a  band  of  gold  ; 
No  step  by  Grecian  fountain  kissed 

Was  of  diviner  mould. 
In  the  bright  girdle  round  her  waist, 

Where  the  red  rubies  shine, 
The  kandjar's  glittering  hilt  is  placed, 

To  mark  her  royal  line. 


Her  face  is  like  the  moonlight  pale, 

Strangely  and  purely  fair, 
For  never  summer  sun  nor  gale 

Has  touched  the  softness  there. 
There  are  no  colors  of  the  rose, 

Alone  the  lip  is  red  ; 
No  blush  disturbs  the  sweet  repose 

Which  o'er  that  cheek  is  shed. 


And  yet  the  large  black  eyes,  like  night, 

Have  passion  and  have  power  ; 
Within  their  sleepy  depths  is  light, 

For  some  wild  wakening  hour. 
A  world  of  sad  and  tender  dreams 

'Neatli  those  long  lashes  sleep, 
A  native  pensiveness  that  seems 

Too  still  and  sweet  to  weep 


LANDOSTS    POEMS. 

Of  such  seclusion  know  we  naught ; 

Yet  surely  woman  here 
Grows  shrouded  from  all  common  thought, 

More  delicate  and  dear. 
And  love,  thus  made  a  thing  apart, 

Must  seem  the  more  divine, 
When  the  sweet  temple  of  the  heart 

Is  a  thrice-veiled  shrine. 


THE  LAKE  OF  COMO. 

AGAIN  I  am  beside  the  lake, 
The  lonely  lake,  which  used  to  be 
The  wide  world  of  the  beating  heart, 
When  I  was,  love,  with  thee. 

I  see  the  quiet  evening  lights 
Amid  the  distant  mountains  shine ; 
I  hear  the  music  of  a  lute  ; 
It  used  to  come  from  thine. 

How  can  another  sing  the  song, 

The  sweet  sad  song  that  was  thine  own  ? 

It  is  alike,  yet  not  the  same  ; 

It  has  not  caught  thy  tone. 

Ah,  never  other  lip  may  catch 

The  sweetness  round  thine  own  that  clung ; 


'U. 


494 


LANDONS    POEMS. 

To  me  there  is  a  tone  unheard, 
There  is  a  chord  unstrung. 

Thou  loveliest  lake,  I  sought  thy  shores, 
That  dreams  from  other  days  might  cast 
The  presence  elsewhere  sought  in  vain, 
The  presence  of  the  past. 

I  find  the  folly  of  the  search, 
Thou  bringest  but  half  the  past  again  ; 
My  pleasure  calling  faintly  back 
Too  vividly  rny  pain. 

Too  real  the  memories  that  haunt 
The  purple  shadows  round  thy  brink — 
I  only  asked  of  thee  to  dream, 
I  did  not  ask  to  think. 

False  beauty  haunting  still  my  heart, 
Though  long  since  from  that  heart  removed ; 
These  waves  but  tell  me  how  thou  wert 
Too  well  and  vainly  loved. 

Fair  lake,  it  is  all  vain  to  seek 
The  influence  of  thy  lonely  shore— 
I  ask  of  thee  for  hope  and  love- 
They  come  to  me  no  more. 


(495) 


THE  NEGLECTED  ONE. 

AND  there  is  silence  in  that  lonely  hall, 

Save  where  the  waters  of  the  fountains  fall, 

And  the  wind  s  distant  murmuring,  which  takes 

Sweet  messages  from  every  bud  it  wakes. 

'Tis  more  than  midnight ;  all  the  lamps  are  gone, 

Their  fragrant  oils  exhausted, — all  but  one, 

A  little  silver  lamp  beside  a  scroll, 

Where  a  young  maiden  leant,  and  poured  her  soul, 

In  those  last  words,  the  bitter  and  the  brief : 

How  can  they  say  confiding  is  relief? 

Light  are  the  woes  that  to  the  eyelids  spring, 

Subdued  and  softened  by  the  tears  they  bring ; 

But  there  are  some  too  long,  too  well  concealed, 

Too  deeply  felt, — that  are  but  once  revealed : 

Like  the  withdrawing  of  the  mortal  dart, 

And  then  the  life-blood  follows  from  the  heart ; 

Sorrow,  before  unspoken  by  a  sigh, 

But  which,  once  spoken,  only  hath  to  die. 

Young,  very  young,  the  lady  was,  who  now 

Bowed  on  her  slender  hand  her  weary  brow : 

Not  beautiful,  save  when  the  eager  thought 

In  the  soft  eyes  a  sudden  beauty  wrought : 

Not  beautiful,  save  when  the  cheek's  warm  blush 

Grew  eloquent  with  momentary  flush 

Of  feeling,  that  made  beauty,  not  to  last, 

And  scarcely  caught,  so  quickly  is  it  past 

— Alas !  she  knew  it  well ;  too  early  throw 

'Mid  a  cold  world,  the  unloved  and  the  lone, 


498  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

Just  one  faint  tone  of  music,  low  and  clear, 

Coming  when  other  songs  have  left  the  ear  ? 

Might  she  not  tell  him  how  she  loved,  and  pray 

A  mournful  memory  for  some  distant  day  ? 

She  took  the  scroll : — what  ?  bare  perhaps  to  scorn 

The  timid  sorrow  she  so  long  had  borne  ? 

Silent  as  death,  she  hid  her  face,  for  shame 

In  rushing  crimson  to  her  forehead  came  ; 

Through  the  small  fingers  fell  the  bitter  rain, 

And  tremblingly  she  closed  the  leaves  again. 

— The  hall  is  lit  with  rose,  that  morning  hour, 

Whose  lights  are  colored  by  each  opening  flower : 

A  sweet  bird  by  the  casement  sat  and  sang 

A  song  so  glad,  that  like  a  laugh  it  rang, 

While  its  wings  shook  the  jessamine,  till  the  bloom 

Floated  like  incense  round  that  joyous  room. 

— They  found  the  maiden :  still  her  face  was  bowed, 

As  with  some  shame  that  might  not  be  avowed ; 

They  raised  the  long  hair  which  her  face  concealed, — 

And  she  is  dead, —  her  secret  unrevealed. 


THE  CHURCH   AT  POLIGNAC. 


KNEEL  down  in  yon  chapel,  but  only  one  prayer 
Should  awaken  the  echoes  its  tall  arches  bear ; 
Pale  mother,  pray  not  for  the  child  on  the  bed, 
For  the  sake  of  the  prisoner  let  matins  be  said  ; 
Old  man,  though  the  shade  of  thy  gravestone  be  nigh, 
Yet  not  for  thyself  raise  thy  voice  to  the  sky ; 


-:^--J 


POEMS.  499 

\Toung  maiden  there  kneeling,  with  blush  and  with  tear, 
Name  not  the  one  name  to  thy  spirit  most  dear. 
The  prayer  for  another,  to  Heaven  addressed, 
Comes  back  to  the  breather  thrice  blessing  and  blest 

Beside  the  damp  marsh,  rising  sickly  and  cold, 

Stand  the  bleak  and  stern  walls  of  the  dark  prison-hold ; 

There  fallen  and  friendless,  forlorn  and  oppressed, 

Are  they — once  the  flattered,  obeyed,  and  caressed. 

From  the  blessings  that  God  gives  the  poorest  exiled ; 

His  wife  is  a  widow,  an  orphan  his  child. 

For  years  there  the  prisoner  has  wearily  pined, 

Apart  from  his  country,  apart  from  his  kind  ; 

Amid  millions  of  freemen,  one  last  lonely  slave, 

He  knoweth  the  gloom,  not  the  peace  of  the  grave. 

I  plead  not  their  errors,  my  heart's  in  the  cause, 
Which  bows  down  the  sword  with  the  strength  of  the 

laws  ; 

But  France,  while  within  her  such  memories  live, 
With  her  triumphs  around,  can  afford  to  forgive. 
Let  freedom,  while  raising  her  glorious  brow, 
Shake  the  tears  from  her  laurels    that   darken  there 

now  ; 

Be  the  chain  and  the  bar  from  yon  prison  removed, 
Give  the  children  their  parents,  the  wife  her  beloved. 
By  the  heart  of  the  many  is  pardon  assigned, 
For,  Mercy,  thy  cause  is  the  cause  of  mankind. 

I 
I 


(500) 


THE  PIRATE'S  SONG. 

To  the  mast  nail  our  flag,  it  is  dark  as  the  grave, 

Or  the  death  which  it  bears  while  it  sweeps  o'er  the 

wave. 

Let  our  deck  clear  for  action,  our  guns  be  prepared  ; 
Be  the  boarding-axe  sharpened,  the  cirnetar  bared  ; 
Set  the  canisters  ready,  and  then  bring  to  me, 
For  the  last  of  my  duties,  the  powder-room  key. 
It  shall  never  be  lowered,  the  black  flag  we  bear ; 
If  the  sea  be  denied  us,  we  sweep  through  the  air. 

Unsna  °d  have  we  left  our  last  victory's  prey  ; 

It  is  mine  to  divide  it,  and  yours  to  obey. 

There  are  shawls  that  might  suit  a  sultana's  white  nech, 

And  pearls  that  are  fair  as  the  arms  they  will  deck : 

There  are  flasks  which,  unseal  them,  the  air  will  dis« 

close 

Diametta's  fair  summer,  the  home  of  the  rose. 
I  claim  not  a  portion  ;  I  ask  but  as  mine, 
'Tis  to  drink  to  our  victory — one  cup  of  red  wine. 

Some  fight,  'tis  for  riches  ;  some  fight,  'tis  for  fame ; 
The  first,  I  despise,  and  the  last  is  a  name. 
I  fight,  'tis  for  vengeance.     I  love  to  see  flow, 
At  the  stroke  of  my  sabre,  the  life  of  my  foe. 
I  strike  for  the  memory  of  long  vanished  years  ; 
I  only  shed  blood,  Avhere  another  sheds  tears. 
I  come,  as  the  lightning  comes  red  from  above, 
O'er  the  race  that  I  loathe,  to  the  battle  I  love. 


(501) 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 

THE  vessel  swept  in  with  the  light  of  the  morn, 
High  on  the  red  air  its  gonfalon  borne  ; 
The  roofs  of  the  dwellings,  the  sails  of  the  mast, 
Mixed  in  the  crimson  the  daybreak  had  cast. 

On  came  the  vessel : — the  sword  in  his  hand, 
At  once  from  the  deck  leapt  a  stranger  to  land. 
A  moment  he  stood,  with  the  wind  in  his  hair, 
The  sunshine  less  golden — the  silk  was  less  fair. 

He  looked  o'er  the  waters — what  looked  he  to  see  ? 
What  alone  in  the  depths  of  his  own  heart  could  be. 
He  saw  an  old  castle  arise  from  the  main, 
The  oak  on  its  hills,  and  the  dee    on  its  plain. 

He  saw  it  no  longer ;  the  vision  is  fled ; 

Paler  the  pressed  lip,  and  firmer  the  tread. 

He  takes  from  his  neck  a  light  scarf  that  he  wore ; 

'Tis  flung  on  the  waters  that  bear  it  from  shore. 

'Twas  the  gift  of  a  false  one ;  and  with  it  he  flung 
All  the  hopes  and  the  fancies  that  round  it  had  clung. 
The  shrine  has  his  vow — the  Cross  has  his  brand ; 
He  weareth  no  gift  of  a  woman's  white  hand. 

A  seal  on  his  lip,  an  oath  at  his  heart, 

His  future  a  warfare — he  knoweth  his  part. 

The  visions  that  haunted  his  boyhood  are  o'er, 

The  young  knight  of  Malta  can  dream  them  no  more. 


(502) 


CALDRON  SNOUT, 

WESTMORELAND. 

LONG  years  have  past  since  last  I  stood 

Alone  amid  this  mountain  scene, 
Unlike  the  future  which  I  dreamed 

How  like  my  future  it  has  been ! 
A  cold  gray  sky  o'erhung  with  clouds, 

With  showers  in  every  passing  shade, 
How  like  the  moral  atmosphere 

Whose  gloom  my  horoscope  has  made ! 

I  thought  if  yet  my  weary  feet 

Could  rove  my  native  hills  again, 
A  world  of  feeling  would  revive, 

Sweet  feelings  wasted,  worn  in  vain. 
My  early  hopes,  my  early  joys, 

I  dreamed  those  valleys  would  restore , 
I  asked  for  childhood  to  return, 

For  childhood,  which  returns  no  more. 

Surely  the  scene  itself  is  changed  ! 

There  did  not  always  rest  as  now 
That  shadow  in  the  valley's  depth, 

That  gloom  upon  the  mountain's  brow. 
Wild  flowers  within  the  chasms  dwelt 

Like  treasures  in  some  fairy  hold, 
And  morning  o'er  the  mountains  shed 

Her  kindling  world  of  vapory  gold. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  503 

Another  season  of  the  year 

Is  now  upon  the  earth  and  rne ; 
Another  spring  will  light  these  hills — 

No  other  spring  mine  own  may  be : 
I  must  retune  my  unstrung  heart, 

I  must  awake  the  sleeping  tomb  ; 
I  must  recall  the  loved  and  lost, 

Ere  spring  again  for  me  could  bloom. 

I've  wandered,  but  it  was  in  vain, 

In  many  a  far  and  foreign  clime, 
Absence  is  not  forgetfulness, 

And  distance  cannot  vanquish  time. 
One  face  was  ever  in  my  sight, 

One  voice  was  ever  on  my  ear ; 
From  all  earth's  loveliness  I  turned 

To  wish,  ah !  that  the  dead  were  here ! 

O !  weary  wandering  to  no  home, 

O  !  weary  wandering  alone  ; 
I  turned  to  childhood's  once  glad  scenes 

And  found  life's  last  illusion  flown. 
Ah !  those  who  left  their  childhood's  scenes 

For  after  years  of  toil  and  pain, 
Who  but  bring  back  the  breaking  heart, 

Should  never  seek  those  scenes  again. 


(504) 


DERWENT  WATER. 

I  KNEW  her — though  she  used  to  make 
Her  dwelling  by  that  lonely  lake. 
A  little  while  she  came  to  show- 
How  lovely  distant  flowers  can  go. 
The  influence  of  that  fairy  scene 
Made  beautiful  her  face  and  mein. 
I  have  seen  faces  far  more  fair, 
But  none  that  had  such  meaning  there, 
For  to  her  downcast  eyes  were  given 
The  azure  of  an  April  heaven ; 
The  softening  of  those  sunny  hours, 
By  passing  shadows  and  by  showers 

O'er  her  cheek  the  wandering  red, 
By  the  first  wild  rose  was  shed. 
Evanescent,  pure,  and  clear. 
Just  the  heart's  warm  atmosphere. 
Like  the  sweet  and  inner  world, 
In  that  early  rosebud  furled. 
All  whose  rich  revealings  glow 
Round  the  lovelier  world  below. 
Light  her  step  was,  and  her  voice 
Said  unto  the  air,  rejoice  ; 
And  her  light  laugh's  silvery  breaking 
Sounded  like  the  lark's  first  waking. 

Return  to  that  fair  lake,  return, 

On  whose  green  heathlands  grows  the  fern ; 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  505 

And  mountain  heights  of  dark  gray  stone 
Are  bright  with  lichens  overgrown. 
Thou  art  too  fay-like  and  too  fair 
For  our  more  common  clouded  air, 
Beauty  such  as  thine  belongs 
To  a  world  of  dreams  and  songs  ; 
Let  thy  image  with  us  dwell, 
Lending  music  to  farewell. 


THE  WIDOW'S  MITE. 

IT  is  the  fruit  of  waking  hours 

When  others  are  asleep, 
When  moaning  round  the  low  thatched  roof 

The  winds  of  winter  creep. 

It  is  the  fruit  of  summer  days 

Passed  in  a  gloomy  room, 
When  others  are  abroad  to  taste 

The  pleasant  morning  bloom. 

'Tis  given  from  a  scanty  store, 

And  missed  while  it  is  given  ; 
'Tis  given — for  the  claims  of  earth 

Are  less  than  those  of  heaven. 

Few  save  the  poor  feel  for  the  poor ; 

The  rich  know  not  how  hard 
It  is  to  be  of  needful  food 

And  needful  rest  debarred. 

43 


506  LANDOA'S  POEMS. 

Their  paths  are  paths  of  plenteousness  ; 

They  sleep  on  silk  and  down, 
And  never  think  how  heavily 

The  weary  head  lies  down. 

They  know  not  of  the  scanty  meal 
With  small  pale  faces  round; 

No  fire  upon  the  cold,  damp  hearth, 
When  snow  is  on  the  ground. 

They  never  by  their  window  sit, 

And  see  the  gay  pass  by  ; 
Yet  take  their  weary  work  again, 

Though  with  a  mournful  eye. 

The  rich,  they  give — they  miss  it  not — 

A  blessing  cannot  be 
Like  that  which  rests,  thou  widowed  one. 

Upon  thy  gift  and  thee  ! 


HEBE. 

YOUTH  !  thou  art  a  lovely  time, 
With  thy  wild  and  dreaming  eyes ; 

Looking  onwards  to  their  prime, 
Colored  by  their  April  skies. 

Yet  I  do  not  wish  for  thee, 

Pass,  O  !  quickly  pass  from  me. 


LANDOK'S  POEMS.  507 

Thou  hast  all  too  much  unrest, 
Haunted  by  vain  hopes  and  fears ; 

Though  thy  cheek  with  smiles  be  drest, 
Yet  that  cheek  is  wet  with  tears. 

Bitter  are  the  frequent  showers, 

Falling  in  thy  sunny  hours. 

Let  my  heart  grow  calm  and  cold, 

Calm  to  sorrow,  cold  to  love : 
Let  aifections  loose  their  hold, 

Let  my  spirit  look  above. 
I  am  weary — youth  pass  on, 
All  thy  dearest  gifts  are  gone. 

She  in  wh<5se  sweet  form  the  Greek 

Bade  his  loveliest  vision  dwen  ^ 
She  of  yon  bright  cup  and  cheek. 

From  her  native  heaven  fell . 
Type  of  what  may  never  last, 
Soon  the  heaven  of  youth  is  past. 

O !  farewell — for  never  more 

Can  thy  dreams  again  be  mine ; 
Hope  and  truth  and  faith  are  o'er, 

And  the  heart  which  was  their  shrine 
Has  no  boon  of  thee  to  seek, 
Asking  but  to  rest  or  break. 


508 


COTTAGE  COURTSHIP. 

Now,  out  upon  this  smiling, 

No  smile  shall  meet  his  sight ; 
And  a  word  of  gay  reviling 

Is  all  he'll  hear  to-night ; 
For  he'll  hold  my  smiles  too  lightly, 

If  he  always  sees  me  smile  ; 
He'll  think  they  shine  more  brightly, 

When  I  have  frowned  awhile 

'Tis  not  kindness  keeps  a  lover, 

He  must  feel  the  chain  he  wears  • 
All  the  sweet  enchantment's  over, 

When  he  has  no  anxious  cares. 
The  heart  would  seem  too  common, 

If  he  thought  that  heart  his  own ; 
Ah  !  the  empire  of  a  woman 

Is  still  in  the  unknown. 

Let  change  without  a  reason, 

Make  him  never  feel  secure  ; 
For  it  is  an  April  season 

That  a  lover  must  endure. 
They  are  all  of  them  so  faithless, 

Their  torment  is  your  gain  ; 
Would  you  keep  your  own  heart  scathlesa, 

Be  the  one  to  give  the  pain. 


(509) 


THE  PHANTOM. 

I  COME  from  my  home  in  the  depth  of  the  sea, 
I  come  that  thy  dreams  may  be  haunted  by  me ; 
Not  as  we  parted,  the  rose  on  my  brow, 
But  shadowy,  silent,  I  visit  thee  now. 
The  time  of  our  parting  was  when  the  moon  shone, 
Of  all  heaven's  daughters  the  loveliest  one  ; 
No  cloud  in  her  presence,  no  star  at  her  side, 
She  smiled  on  her  mirror  and  vassal,  the  tide. 

Unbroken  its  silver,  undreamed  of  its  swell, 
There  was  hope,  and  not  fear,  in  our  midnight  farewell ; 
While  drooping  around  were  the  wings  white  and  wild, 
Of  the  ship  that  was  sleeping,  as  slumbers  a  child. 
I  turned  to  look  from  thee,  to  look  on  the  bower, 
Which  thou  hast  been  training  in  sunshine  and  shower ; 
So  thick  were  the  green  leaves,  the  sun  and  the  rain 
Sought  to  pierce  through  the  shelter  from  summer  in  vain. 

It  was  not  its  ash-tree,  the  home  of  the  wren, 

And  the  haunt  of  the  bee,  I  was  thinking  of  then ; 

Nor  yet  of  the  violets,  sweet  on  the  air, 

But  I  thought  of  the  true  love  who  planted  them  there, 

I  come  to  thee  now,  my  long  hair  on  the  gale, 

It  is  wreathed  with  no  red  rose,  is  bound  with  no  veil, 

It  is  dark  with  the  sea  damps,  and  wet  with  the  spray, 

The  gold  of  its  auburn  has  long  past  away. 

And  dark  is  the  cavern  wherein  I  have  slept, 
There  the  seal  and  the  dolphin  their  vigil  have  kept ; 


510  LANDOS'S    POEMS 


And  the  roof  is  incrusted  with  white  coral  cells, 
Wherein  the  strange  insect  that  buildeth  them  dwells. 
There  is  life  in  the  shells  that  are  strewed  o'er  the 

sands, 

Not  filled  but  with  music  as  on  our  own  strands  ; 
Around  me  are  whitening  the  bones  of  the  dead, 
And  a  starfish  has  grown  to  the  rock  overhead. 

Sometimes  a  vast  shadow  goes  darkly  along, 

The  shark  or  the  sword-fish,  the  fearful  and  strong: 

There  is  fear  in  the  eyes  that  are  glaring  around, 

As  they  pass  like  the  spectres  of  death  without  sound  : 

Over  rocks,  without  summer,  the  dull  sea-weeds  trail, 

And  the  blossoms  that  hang  there  are  scentless  and 

pale; 

Amid  their  dark  garlands,  the  water-snakes  glide, 
And  the  sponge,  like  the  moss,  gathers  thick  at  their 

side. 

O  !  would  that  the  sunshine  could  fall  on  my  grave, 
That  the  wild  flower  and  willow  could  over  it  wave  ; 
O  !  would  that  the  daisies  grew  over  my  sleep, 
That  the  tears  of  the  morning  could  over  me  weep. 
Thou  art  pale  'mid  the  dreams,  I  shall  trouble  no  more, 
The  sorrow  that  kept  me  from  slumber  is  o'er  ; 
To  the  depths  of  the  ocean  in  peace  I  depart, 
For  I  still  have  a  grave  greener  far  in  thy  heart  ! 


(511) 


A  LEGEND  OF  TEIGNMOUTH. 

SOME  few  brief  hours,  my  gallant  bark, 

And  we  shall  see  the  shore ;    . 
My  native,  and  my  beautiful, 

That  I  will  leave  no  more. 

And  gallantly  the  white  sails  swept 

On,  on  before  the  wind ; 
The  prow  dashed  through  the  foam,  and  left 

A  sparkling  line  behind. 

The  sun  looked  out  through  the  blue  sky, 

A  gladsome  summer  sun  ; 
The  white  cliffs  like  his  mirrors  show 

Their  native  land  is  won. 

I 
And  gladly  from  the  tall  ship's  side 

Sir  Francis  hailed  the  land, 
And  gladly  in  his  swiftest  boat, 

Rowed  onward  to  the  strand. 

I 

li 
"  I  see  my  father's  castle  walls 

Look  down  upon  the  sea ; 
The  red  wine  will  flow  there  to-night, 

And  all  for  love  of  me. 

i 
"  I  left  a  gentle  maiden  there  ; 

For  all  the  tales  they  say 
Of  woman's  Avrong  and  faithlessness 

To  him  who  is  away  : 


512  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

"  I'll  wager  on  her  lily  hand, 

There's  still  a  golden  ring ; 
But,  lady,  'tis  a  plainer  one 
That  o'er  the  seas  I  bring." 

His  bugle  sound  the  turret  swept, 
They  met  him  in  the  hall ; 

But  'mid  dear  faces  where  is  hers, 
The  dearest  of  them  all  ? 

Ah  !  every  brow  is  dark  and  sad, 

And  every  voice  is  low ; 
His  bosom  beats  not  as  it  beat 

A  little  while  ago. 

They  lead  him  to  a  darkened  room, 

A  heavy  pall  they  raise  ; 
A  face  looks  forth  as  beautiful 

As  in  its  living  days. 

A  ring  is  yet  upon  the  hand, 
Sir  Francis,  worn  for  thee  ; 

Alas !  that  such  a  clay-cold  hand, 
Should  true  love's  welcome  be  ' 

He  kissed  that  pale  and  lovely  mouth, 
He  laid  her  in  the  grave  ; 

And  then  again  Sir  Francis  sailed 
Far  o'er  the  ocean  wave. 

To  east  and  west,  to  north  and  south, 
That  mariner  was  known  ; 

A  wanderer  bound  to  many  a  shore, 
But  never  to  his  own. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  513 

At  length  the  time  appointed  came, 

He  knew  that  it  was  come ; 
With  pallid  brow  and  wasted  frame. 

That  mariner  sought  home. 

The  worn-out  vessel  reached  the  shore, 

The  weary  sails  sank  down ; 
The  seamen  cleared  her  of  the  spoils 

From  many  an  Indian  town. 

And  then  Sir  Francis  fired  the  ship 

Yet  tears  were  in  his  eyes, 
When  the  last  blaze  of  those  old  planks 

Died  in  the  midnight  skies. 

Next  morning,  'twas  a  Sabbath  morn, 
They  sought  that  church  to  pray ; 

And  cold  beside  his  maiden's  tomb 
The  brave  Sir  Francis  lay. 

O,  Death  !  the  pitying,  that  restored 

The  lover  to  his  bride  ; 
Once  more  the  marble  was  unclosed — 

They  laid  him  at  her  side. 

And  still  the  evening  sunshine  sheds 

Its  beauty  o'er  that  tomb  ; 
Like  heaven's  own  hope,  to  mitigate 

Earth's  too  unkindly  doom. 


(514) 


THE  CITY  CHURCHYARD. 

I  PRAY  thee  lay  rne  not  to  rest 
Among  these  mouldering  bones, 

Too  heavily  the  earth  is  prest 
By  all  these  crowded  stones. 

Life  is  too  gay — life  is  too  near — 

With  all  its  pomp  and  toil ; 
I  pray  thee,  do  not  lay  me  here, 

In  such  a  world-struck  soil. 

The  ceaseless  roll  of  wheels  would  wake 

The  slumbers  of  the  dead  ; 
I  cannot  bear  for  life  to  make 

Its  pathway  o'er  my  head. 

The  flags  around  are  cold  and  drear, 

They  stand  apart,  alone  ; 
And  no  one  ever  pauses  here, 

To  sorrow  for  the  gone. 

No :  lay  me  in  the  far  green  fields 
The  summer  sunshine  cheers  ; 

And  where  the  early  wild-flower  yields 
The  tribute  of  its  tears  ; 

Where  shadows  the  sepulchral  yew, 
Where  droops  the  willow  tree ; 

Where  the  long  grass  is  filled  with  dew— 
O  !  make  such  grave  for  me ! 


LANDO.N'S  POEMS.  515 

And  passers-by,  at  evening's  close, 

Will  pause  beside  the  grave, 
And  moralize  o'er  the  repose 

They  fear,  and  yet  they  crave. 

Perhaps  some  kindly  hand  may  bring 

Its  offering  to  the  tomb  ; 
And  say,  as  fades  the  rose  in  spring, 

So  fadeth  human  bloom. 

But  here  there  is  no  kindly  thought 

To  soothe,  and  to  relieve  ; 
No  fancies  and  no  flowers  are  brought, 

That  soften  while  they  grieve. 

Here  Poesy  and  Love  come  not — 

It  is  a  world  of  stone  ; 
The  grave  is  bought — is  closed — forgot! 

And  then  life  hurries  on. 

Sorrow,  and  beauty — nature — love, 

Redeem  man's  common  breath ; 
Ah !  let  them  shed  the  grave  above — 

Give  loveliness  to  death. 


(516) 

I 


THE  UNKNOWN  GRAVE. 

THERE  is  a  little  lonely  grave 

Which  no  one  comes  to  see, 
The  foxglove  and  red  orchis  wave 

Their  welcome  to  the  bee. 
There  never  falls  the  morning  sun, 

It  lies  beneath  the  wall, 
But  there  when  weary  day  is  done 

The  lights  of  sunset  fall ; 
Flushing  the  warm  and  crimson  air 
As  life  and  hope  were  present  there. 

There  sleepeth  one  who  left  his  heart 

Behind  him  in  his  song  ; 
Breathing  of  that  diviner  part 

Which  must  to  heaven  belong ; 
The  language  of  those  spirit  chords, 

But  to  the  poet  known. 
Youth,  love,  and  hope  yet  use  his  words, 

They  seem  to  be  his  own. 
And  yet  he  has  not  left  a  name, 
The  poet  died  without  his  fame. 

How  many  are  the  lovely  lays     . 

That  haunt  our  English  tongue, 
Defrauded  of  their  poet's  praise, 

Forgotten  he  who  sung. 
Tradition  only  vaguely  keeps 

Sweet  fancies  round  this  tomb : 


ff'r    POEMS.  517 


Its  tears  are  what  the  wild  flower  weeps, 

Its  record  is  that  bloom; 
Ah,  surely  nature  keeps  with  her 
The  memory  of  her  worshipper. 


One  of  her  loveliest  mysteries 

Such  spirit  blends  at  last, 
With  all  the  fairy  fantasies 

Which  o'er  some  scenes  are  cast 
A  softer  beauty  fills  the  grove, 

A  light  is  in  the  grass, 
A  deeper  sense  of  truth  and  love 

Comes  o'er  us  as  we  pass ; 
While  lingers  in  the  heart  one  line, 
The  nameless  poet  hath  a  shrine. 


THE  MISSIONARY. 

IT  is  a  glorious  task  to  seek, 

Where  misery  droops  the  patient  head : 
Where  tears  are  on  the  widow's  cheek, 

Where  weeps  the  mourner  o'er  the  dead. 


These  are  the  moments  when  the  heart 
Turns  from  a  world  no  longer  dear ; 

These  are  the  moments  to  impart 
The  only  hope  still  constant  here. 


618  LANDOVS    POEMS. 


That  hope  is  present  in  our  land, 
For  many  a  sacred  shrine  is  there  ; 

Time-honored  old  cathedrals  stand  ; 
Each  village  has  its  house  of  prayer. 

O'er  all  the  realm  one  creed  is  spread  — 
One  name  adored  —  one  altar  known. 

If  souls  there  be  in  doubt,  or  dread, 
Alas  !  the  darkness  is  their  own. 

The  priest  whose  heart  is  in  his  toil 
Hath  here  a  task  of  hope  and  love  ; 

He  dwells  upon  his  native  soil. 
He  has  his  native  sky  above. 

Not  so  beneath  this  foreign  sky  : 
Not  so  upon  this  burning  strand  ; 

Where  yonder  giant  temples  lie, 
The  miracles  of  mortal  hand. 

Mighty  and   beautiful,  but  given 

To  idols  of  a  creed  profane, 
That  cast  the  shade  of  earth  on  heaven, 

By  fancies  monstrous,  vile,  and  vain. 

The  votary  here  must  half  unlearn 
The  accents  of  his  mother  tongue  ; 

Must  dwell  'mid  strangers,  and  must  earn 
Fruits  from  a  soil  reluctant  wrung. 

His  words  on  hardened  hearts  must  fall, 
Hardened  till  God's  appointed  hour  ; 

Yet  he  must  wait,  and  watch  o'er  all, 

Till  hope  grows  faith,  and  prayer  has  power. 


519 


And  many  a  grave  neglected  lies, 

Where  sleep  the  soldiers  of  the  Lord  ; 

Who  perished  'neath  the  sultry  skies, 

Where  first  they  preached  that  sacred  word. 

But  not  in  vain  —  their  toil  was  blest  ; 

Life's  dearest  hope  by  them  was  won  ; 
A  blessing  is  upon  their  rest, 

And  on  the  work  which  they  begun. 

Yon  city,  where  our  purer  creed 
Was  a  thing  unnamed,  unknown, 

Has  now  a  sense  of  deeper  need, 
Has  now  a  place  of  prayer  its  own. 

And  many  a  darkened  mind  has  light, 
And  many  a  stony  heart  has  tears  ; 

The  morning  breaking  o'er  the  night, 
So  long  upon  those  godless  spheres. 

Our  prayers  be  with  them  —  we  who  know 

The  value  of  a  soul  to  save, 
Must  pray  for  those,  who  seek  to  show 

The  Heathen  Hope  beyond  the  grave. 


(520) 


THE  WISHING  GATE. 

WISUES,  no  !  I  have  not  one, 
Hope's  sweet  toil  with  me  is  done ; 
One  by  one  have-  flitted  by, 
All  the  rainbows  of  the  sky. 
Not  a  star  could  now  unfold 
Aught  I  once  wished  to  be  told. 
What  have  I  to  seek  of  tliee  ? 
Not  a  wish  remains  for  me. 

Let  the  soldier  pause  to  ask, 
Honor  on  his  glorious  task  ; 
Let  the  parting  sailor  crave 
A  free  wild  wind  across  the  wave  ; 
Let  the  maiden  pause  to  frame 
Blessings  on  some  treasured  name  ; 
Let  them  breathe  their  hopes  in  thee, 
Not  a  wish  remains  for  ine. 

Not  a  wish  !  beat  not  my  heart, 

Thou  hast  not  bade  thy  dreams  depart ; 

They  have  past,  but  left  behind 

Weary  spirit,  wasted  mind. 

Ah  !  if  this  old  charm  were  sooth, 

One  wish  yet  might  tax  its  truth ; 

I  would  ask,  however  vain. 

Never  more  to  wish  again 


(521) 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY. 

LIKE  some  vision  olden 

Of  far  other  time, 
When  the  age  was  golden, 

In  the  young  world's  prime 
Is  thy  soft  pipe  ringing, 

O  lonely  shepherd  boy, 
What  song  art  thou  singing, 

In  thy  youth  and  joy  ? 


Or  art  thou  complaining 

Of  thy  lowly  lot, 
And  thine  own  disdaining, 

Dost  ask  what  thou  hast  not  ? 
Of  the  future  dreaming, 

Weary  of  the  past, 
For  the  present  scheming, 

All  hut  what  thou  hast. 


No,  thou  art  delighting 

In  thy  summer  home, 
Where  the  flowers  inviting 

Tempt  the  bee  to  roam  ; 
Where  the  cowslip  bending, 

With  its  golden  bells, 
Of  each  glad  hour's  ending 

With  a  sweet  chime  tells. 

44* 


522  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

All  wild  creatures  love  him 

When  he  is  alone, 
Every  bird  above  him 

Sings  its  softest  tone. 
Thankful  to  high  Heaven, 

Humble  in  thy  joy, 
Much  to  thee  is  given, 

Lowly  shepherd  boy. 


THE  WOODLAND  BROOK 


THOU  art  flowing,  thou  art  flowing, 
O  small  and  silvery  brook  ; 

The  rushes  by  thee  growing, 
And  with  a  patient  look 

The  pale  narcissus  o'er,  thee  bends 

Like  one  who  asks  in  vain  for  friends. 


I  bring  not  back  my  childhood, 
Sweet  comrade  of  its  hours  ; 

The  music  of  the  wild  wood, 
The  color  of  the  flowers ; 

Tney  do  not  bring  again  the  dream 

That  haunted  me  beside  thy  stream. 

When  black-lettered  old  romances 
Made  a  world  for  me  alone  ; 

O,  days  of  lovely  fancies, 
Are  ye  forever  flown  ? 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  523 

Ye  are  fled,  sweet,  vague,  and  vain, 
So  I  cannot  dream  again. 

I  have  left  a  feverish  pillow 

For  thy  soothing  song : 
Alas,  each  fairy  billow 

An  image  bears  along ! 
Look  where  I  will,  I  only  see 
One  face  too  much  beloved  by  me. 

In  vain  my  heart  remembers 

What  pleasure  used  to  be  ; 
My  past  thoughts  are  but  embers 

Consumed  by  love  for  thee. 
I  wish  to  love  thee  less — and  feel 
A  deeper  fondness  o'er  me  steal. 


THE   DANCING   GIRL. 

A  LIGHT  and  joyous  figure,  one  that  seems 

As  if  the  air  were  her  own  element ; 

Begirt  witli  cheerful  thoughts,  and  bringing  back 

Old  days,  when  nymphs  upon  Arcadian  plains 

Made  musical  the  wind,  and  in  the  sun 

Flashed  their  bright  cymbals  and  their  whitest  handa 

These  were  the  days  of  poetry — the  woods 

Were  haunted  with  sweet  shadows  ;  and  the  caves 

Odorous  with  moss,  and  lit  with  shining  spars, 

Were  homes  where  Naiades  met  some  graceful  youth 


524  LANDON'S  FOEMS. 

Beneath  the  moonlit  heaven — all  this  is  past ; 
Ours  is  a  darker  and  a  sadder  age ; 
Heaven  help  us  through  it !— 'tis  a  weary  world, 
The  dust  and  ashes  of  a  happier  time, 


DIRGE. 

LAY  her  in  the  gentle  earth, 
Where  the  summer  maketh  mirth  ; 
Where  young  violets  have  birth  ; 

Where  the  lily  bendeth. 
Lay  her  there,  the  lovely  one  ! 
With  the  rose,  her  funeral  stone  ; 
And  for  tears,  such  showers  alone 

As  the  rain  of  April  lendetn. 

From  the  midnight's  quiet  hour 
Will  come  dews  of  holy  power, 
O'er  the  sweetest  human  flower 

That  was  ever  loved. 
But  she  was  too  fair  and  dear 
For  our  troubled  pathway  here  ; 
Heaven,  that  was  her  natural  sphere. 

Has  its  own  removed. 


(525) 


SCENES  IN  LONDON. 

LIFE  in  its  many  shapes  was  there, 

The  busy  and  the  gay  : 
Faces  that  seemed  too  young  and  fair 

To  ever  know  decay. 

Wealth,  with  its  waste,  its  pomp,  and  pride, 

Led  forth  its  glittering  train ; 
And  poverty's  pale  face  beside 

Asked  aid,  and  asked  in  vain. 

The  shops  were  filled  from  many  lands — 
Toys,  silks,  and  gems,  and  flowers  ; 

The  patient  work  of  many  hands, 
The  hope  of  many  hours. 

Yet  'mid  life's  myriad  shapes  around, 

There  was  a  sigh  of  death ; 
There  rose  a  melancholy  sound — 

The  bugle's  wailing  breath. 

They  played  a  mournful  Scottish  air, 

That  on  his  native  hill 
Had  caught  the  notes  the  night  winds  bear 

From  weeping  leaf  and  rill. 

'Twas  strange  to  hear  that  sad  wild  strain 

Its  warning  music  shed, 
Rising  above  life's  busy  train, 

In  memory  of  the  dead. 


526  LAND  OS'S    POEMS. 

There  came  a  slow  and  silent  band 

In  sad  procession  by  : 
Reversed  the  musket  in  each  hand, 

And  downcast  every  eye. 

T'jey  bore  the  soldier  to  his  grave ; 

The  sympathizing  crowd 
Divided  like  a  parted  wave 

By  some  dark  vessel  ploughed. 

A  moment,  and  all  sounds  were  mute, 

For  awe  was  over  all ; 
You  heard  the  soldier's  measured  foot, 

The  bugle's  wailing  call. 

The  gloves  were  laid  upon  the  bier, 

The  helmet  and  the  sword  ; 
The  drooping  war-horse  followed  near, 

As  he,  too,  mourned  his  lord. 

Slowly— I  followed  too— they  led 

To  where  a  church  arose, 
And  flung  a  shadow  o'er  the  dead 

Deep  as  their  own  repose. 

Green  trees  were  there — beneath  the  shade 

Of  one  was  made  a  grave ; 
And  there  to  his  last  rest  was  laid 

The  weary  and  the  brave. 

They  fired  a  volley  o'er  the  bed 

Of  an  unconscious  ear ; 
The  birds  sprang  fluttering  overhead, 

Struck  with  a  sudden  fear. 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  527 

All  left  the  ground  ;  the  bugles  died 

Away  upon  the  wind  ; 
Only  the  tree's  green  branches  sighed 

O'er  him  they  left  behind. 

* 

Again,  all  filled  with  light  and  breath, 

I  passed  the  crowded  street — 
O,  great  extremes  of  life  and  death, 

How  strangely  do  ye  meet ! 


THE  ALTERED  RIVER. 

THOU  lovely  river,  thou  art  now 

As  fair  as  fair  can  be  ; 
Pale  flowers  wreathe  upon  thy  brow, 

The  rose  bends  over  thee. 
Only  the  morning  sun  hath  leave 

To  turn  thy  waves  to  light, 
Cool  shade  the  willow  branches  weave 

When  noon  becomes  too  bright, 

The  lilies  are  the  only  boats 

Upon  thy  diamond  plain, 
The  swan  alone  in  silence  floats 

Around  thy  charmed  domain. 
The  moss-bank's  fresh  embroidery, 

With  fairy  favors  starred, 
Seems  made  the  summer  haunt  to  be 

Of  melancholy  bard. 


LANDOM S    POEMS. 

Fair  as  thou  art,  thou  wilt  be  food 

For  many  a  thought  of  pain  ; 
For  who  can  gaze  upon  thy  flood, 

Nor  wish  it  to  remain 
The  same  pure  and  unsullied  thing 

Where  heaven's  face  is  as  clear 
Mirrored  in  thy  blue  wandering 

As  heaven's  face  can  be  here. 

Flowers  fling  their  sweet  bonds  on  thy  breast, 

The  willows  woo  thy  stay  ; 
In  vain, — thy  waters  may  not  rest, 

Their  course  must  be  away. 
In  yon  wide  world,  what  wiw  thou  find? 

What  all  find — toil  and  care  :  ' 
Your  flowers  you  have  left  behind, 

Far  other  weight  to  bear. 

The  heavy  bridge  confines  your  stream, 

Through  which  the  barges  toil ; 
Smoke  has  shut  out  the  sun's  glad  beam. 

Thy  waves  have  caught  the  soil.     * 
On — on — though  weariness  it  be, 

By  shoal  and  barrier  crossed, 
Till  thou  hast  reached  the  mighty  sea, 

And  there  art  wholly  lost 

Bend  thou,  young  poet,  o'er  the  stream— 
Such  fate  will  be  thine  own ; 

Thy  lute's  hope  is  a  morning  dream, 
A.nd  when  have  dreams  not  flown  ? 


(529) 


THE  FORGOTTEN   ONE. 


No  shadow  rests  upon  the  place 
Where  once  thy  footsteps  roved ; 

Nor  leaf,  nor  blossom,  bear  a  trace 

Of  how  thou  wert  beloved. 
'     The  very  night-dew  disappears 

Too  soon,  as  if  it  spread  its  tears. 


Thou  art  forgotten ! — thou,  whose  feet 

Were  listened  for  like  song ! 
They  used  to  call  thy  voice  so  sweet ; — 

It  did  not  haunt  them  long. 
Thou,  with  thy  fond  and  fairy  mirth — 
How  could  they  bear  their  lonely  hearth  ? 

There  is  no  picture  to  recall 

Thy  glad  and  open  brow  ; 
No  profiled  outline  on  the  wall 

Seems  like  thy  shadow  now ; 
They  have  not  even  kept  to  wear 
One  ringlet  of  thy  golden  hair. 


When  here  we  sheltered  last,  appears 

But  just  like  yesterday  ; 
It  startles  mo  to  think  that  years 

Since  then  are  passed  away. 
The  old  oak  tree  that  was  our  tent, 
No  leaf  seems  changed,  no  bough  seems  rent, 

45 


530  LANDON'S  POEMS. 

A  shower  in  June — a  summer  shower, 
Drove  us  beneath  the  shade  ; 

A  beautiful  and  greenwood  bower 
The  spreading  branches  made  : 

The  rain-drops  shine  upon  the  bougn, 

The  passing  rain — but  where  art  thou  3 

But  I  forget  how  many  showers 
Have  washed  this  old  oak  tree, 

The  winter  and  the  summer  hours, 
Since  I  stood  here  with  thee : 

And  I  forget  how  chance  a  thought 

Thy  memory  to  my  heart  has  brought. 

I  talk  of  friends  who  once  have  wept, 
As  if  they  still  should  weep ; 

I  speak  of  grief  that  long  has  slept, 
As  if  it  could  not  sleep  ; 

I  mourn  o'er  cold  forgetfulness, 

Have  I,  myself,  forgotten  less  ? 

I've  mingled  with  the  young  and  fair, 

Nor  thought  how  there  was  laid, 
One  fair  and  young  as  any  there, 
^  In  silence  and  in  shade. 

How  could  I  see  a  sweet  mouth  shine 
With  smiles,  and  not  remember  thine  ? 

Ah !  it  is  well  we  can  forget, 

Or  who  could  linger  on, 
Beneath  a  sky  whose  stars  are  set — 

On  earth  whose  flowers  are  gone  ? 
For  who  could  welcome  loved  ones  near, 
Thinking  of  those  once  far  more  dear, 


LAJTDON'S -POEMS.  531 

Our  early  friends,  those  of  our  youth  ?— 

We  cannot  feel  again 
The  earnest  love,  the  simple  truth, 

Which  made  us  such  friends  then. 
We  grow  suspicious,  careless,  cold  ; 
We  love  not  as  we  loved  of  old. 

No  more  a  sweet  necessity, 

Love  must  and  will  expand  ; 
Loved  and  beloving  we  must  be, 

With  open  heart  and  hand, 
Which  only  ask  to  trust  and  share 
The  deep  affections  which  they  bear. 

Our  love  was  of  that  early  time  ; 

And  now  that  it  is  past, 
It  breathes  as  of  a  purer  clime 

Than  where  my  lot  is  cast ; 
My  eyes  fill  with  their  sweetest  tears 
In  thinking  of  those  early  years. 

It  shocked  me  first  to  see  the  sun 

Shine  gladly  o'er  thy  tomb  ; 
To  see  the  wild  flowers  o'er  it  run 

In  such  luxuriant  bloom. 
Now  I  feel  glad  that  they  should  keep 
A  bright  sweet  watch  above  thy  sleep. 

The  heaven  whence  thy  nature  came 

Only  recalled  its  own  ; 
It  is  Hope  that  now  breathes  thy  name, 

Though  borrowing  Memory's  tone. 
I  feel  this  earth  could  never  be 
The  native  home  of  one  like  thee. 


532  LAJNDO.N'3    POEMS. 

Farewell !  the  early  dews  that  fall 
Upon  thy  grass-grown  bed, 

Are  like  the  thoughts  that  now  recall 
Thine  image  from  the  dead. 

A  blessing  hallows  thy  dark  cell — 

I  will  not  stay  to  weep.     Farewell ! 


THE  LEGACY  OF  THE  LUTE. 

COME  take  the  lute — the  lute  I  loved— 

'Tis  all  I  have  to  offer  thee ; 
And  may  it  be  less  fatal  gift 

Than  it  has  ever  been  to  me. 
My  sigh  yet  lingers  on  the  strings, 

The  strings  I  have  not  heart  to  break : 
Wilt  thou  not,  dearest !  keep  the  lute 

For  mine — for  the  departed's  sake  ? 

But,  pray  thee,  do  not  wake  that  lute ; 

Leave  it  upon  the  cypress  tree  ; 
I  would  have  crushed  its  charmed  chords, 

But  they  so  oft  were  strung  to  thee. 
The  minstrel-lute  !  O,  touch  it  not, 

Or  weary  destiny  is  thine  ! 
Thy  life  a  twilight's  haunted  dream — 

Thou,  victim,  at  an  idol's  shrine. 

Thy  breath  but  lives  on  others'  lips— 
Thy  hope,  a  thing  beyond  the  grave,- 


LAJNDON'S  POEMS.  533 

Thy  heart,  bare  to  the  vulture's  beak — 
Thyself  a  bound  and  bartered  slave. 

And  yet  a  dangerous  charm  o'er  all, 
A  bright  but  ignis-fatuus  flame. 

Luring  thee  with  a  show  of  power, 
Dazzling  thee  with  a  blaze  of  flame. 

It  is  to  waste  on  careless  hearts 

The  throbbing  music  of  thine  own ; 
To  speak  love's  burning  words,  yet  be 

Alone — ay,  utterly  alone. 
I  sought  to  fling  my  laurel  wreath 

Away  upon  the  autumn  wind : 
In  vain, — 'twas  like  those  poisoned  crowns 

Thou  may'st  riot  from  the  brow  unbind. 

Predestined  from  my  birth  to  feed 

On  dreams,  yet  watch  those  dreams  depart , 
To  bear  through  life — to  feel  in  death — 

A  burning  and  a  broken  heart. 
Then  hang  it  on  the  cypress  bough, 

The  minstrel-lute  I  leave  to  thee ; 
And  be  it  only  for  the  wind 

To  wake  its  mournful  dirge  for  me. 

45* 


(534) 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 


LAUREL  !  O,  fling  thy  green  boughs  on  the  air, 
There  is  dew  on  thy  branches,  what  doth  it  do  there  ? 
Thou  that  art  worn  on  the  conqueror's  shield, 
When  his  country  receives  him  from  glory's  red  field ; 
Thou  that  art  wreathed  round  the  lyre  of  the  bard, 
When  the  song  of  its  sweetness  has  won  its  reward. 
Earth's  changeless  and  sacred — thou  proud  laurel  tree ! 
The  tears  of  the  midnight,  why  hang  they  on  thee  ? 


Rose  of  the  morning,  the  blushing  and  bright, 
Thou  whose  whole  life  is  one  breath  of  delight; 
Beloved  of  the  maiden,  the  chosen  to  bind 
Her  dark  tresses'  wealth  from  the  wild  summer  wind. 
Fair  tablet,  still  vowed  to  the  thoughts  of  the  lover, 
Whose  rich  leaves  with  sweet  secrets  are  written  all 

over ; 

Fragrant  as  blooming — thou  lovely  rose  tree  ! 
The  tears  of  the  midnight,  why  hang  they  on  thee  ? 


Dark  cypress  !  I  see  thee — thou  art  my  reply, 
Why  the  tears  of  the  night  on  thy  comrade  trees  lie ; 
That  laurel  it  wreathed  the  red  brow  of  the  brave, 
Yet  thy  shadow  lies  black  on  the  warrior's  grave  ; 
That  rose  was  less  bright  than  the  lip  which  it  prest, 
Yet  thy  sad  branches  bend  o'er  the  maiden's  last  rest ; 


LANDON'S  POEMS.  535 

The  brave  and  the  lonely  alike  they  are  sleeping, 
I  marvel  no  more  rose  and  laurel  are  Aveeping. 


IV. 

Yet  sunbeam  of  heaven  !  thou  fallest  on  the  tomb ; 
Why  pausest  thou  by  such  dwelling  of  doom  ? 
Before  thee  the  grove  and  the  garden  are  spread — 
Why  lingerest  thou  round  the  place  of  the  dead  ? 
Thou  art  from  another,  a  lovelier  sphere, 
Unknown  to  the  sorrows  that  darken  us  here. 
Thou  art  as  a  herald  of  hope  from  above  ; — 
Weep,  mourner,  no  more  o'er  thy  grief  and  thy  love  ! 
Still  thy  heart  in  its  beating ;  be  glad  of  such  rest, 
Though  it  call  from  thy  bosom  its  dearest  and  best. 
Weep  no  more  that  affection  thus  loosens  its  tie  ; 
Weep  no  more  that  the  loved  and  the  loving  must  die  ; 
Weep  no  more  o'er  the  cold  dust  that  lies  at  your  feet ; 
But  gaze  on  yon  starry  world — there  ye  shall  meet. 

j 


0  heart  of  mine  !  is  there  not  one  dwelling  there 
To  whom  thy  love  clings  in  its  hope  and  its  prayer? 
For  whose  sake  thou  numberest  each  hour  of  the  day, 
As  a  link  in  the  fetters  that  keep  me  away ! 

When  I  think  of  the  glad  and  the  beautiful  home 
Which  oft  in  my  dreams  to  my  spirit  hath  come : 
That  when  our  last  sleep  on  my  eyelids  hath  prest, 
That  I  may  be  with  thee  at  home  and  at  rest  : 
When  wanderer  no  longer  on  life's  weary  shore, 

1  may  kneel  at  thy  feet,  and  part  from  thee  no  more : 
While  death  holds  such  hope  forth  to  soothe  and  to  save, 
O,  sunbeam  of  heaven,  thou  may'st  well  light  the  grave  ! 


(536) 


THE  IONIAN  CAPTIVE. 

SADLY  the  captive  o'er  her  flowers  is  bending, 
While  her  soft  eye  with  sudden  sorrow  fills : 

They  are  not  those  that  grew  beneath  her  tending 
In  the  green  valley  of  her  native  hills. 

There  is  the  violet — not  from  the  meadow 
Where  wandered  carelessly  her  childish  feet ; 

There  is  the  rose — it  grew  not  in  the  shadow 
Of  her  old  home — it  cannot  be  so  sweet 

And  yet  she  loves  them — for  those  flowers  are  bringing 
Dreams  of  the  home  that  she  will  see  no  more ; 

The  languid  perfumes  are  around  her,  flinging 
What  almost  for  the  moment  they  restore. 

She  hears  her  mother's  wheel,  that,  slowly  turning, 
Murmured  unceasingly  the  summer  day  ; 

And  the  same  murmur,  when  the  pine  boughs  burning, 
Told  that  the  summer  hours  had  passed  away. 

She  hears  her  young  companions  sadly  singing 
A  song  they  loved — an  old  complaining  tune  ; 

Then  comes  a  gayer  sound — the  laugh  is  ringing    " 
Of  the  young  children — hurrying  in  at  noon. 

By  the  dim  myrtles,  wandering  with  her  sister, 
They  tell  old  stories,  broken  by  the  mirth 

Of  her  young  brother :  alas  !  have  they  missed  her, 
She  who  was  borne  a  captive  from  their  hearth? 


LANDON'S    POEMS.  537 

She  starts — too  present  grows  the  actual  sorrow, 
By  her  own  heart  she  knows  what  they  have  borne  ; 

Young  as  she  is,  she  shudders  at  to-morrow, 
It  can  but  find  her  prisoner  and  forlorn. 

What  are  the  glittering  trifles  that  surround  her — 
What  the  rich  shawl — and  what  the  golden  chain  ? 

Would  she  could  break  the  fetters  that  have  bound 

her, 
And  see  her  household  and  her  hills  again  ! 


THE  CEDARS  OF  LEBANON. 

YE  ancients  of  the  earth,  beneath  whose  shade 

Swept  the  fierce  banners  of  earth's  mightiest  kings, 

When  millions  for  a  battle  were  arrayed, 

And  the  sky  darkened  with  the  vulture's  wings. 

Long  silence  followed  on  the  battle-cries  ; 

First  the  bones  whitened,  then  were  seen  no  more  ; 
The  summer  grasses  sprang  for  summer  skies, 

And  dim  tradition  told  no  tales  of  yore. 

The  works  of  peace  succeeded  those  first  wars, 
Men  left  the  desert  tents  for  marble  walls  ; 

Then  rose  the  towers  from  whence  they  watched  the 

s.tars, 
And  the  vast  wonders  of  their  kingly  halls. 


538  LANDOX'S    POEMS. 

And  they  are  perished — those  imperial  towers 
Read  not  amid  the  midnight  stars  their  doom  ; 

The  pomp  and  art  of  all  their  glorious  hours 
Lie  hidden  in  the  sands  that  are  their  tomb. 

And  ye,  ancestral  trees !  are  somewhat  shorn 

Of  the  first  strengtn  mat  marKed  earth's  earlier  clime ; 

But  still  ye  stand,  stately  and  tempest- worn, 
To  show  how  nature  triumphs  over  time. 

Much  have  ye  witnessed — but  yet  more  remains  ; 

The  mind's  great  empire  is  but  just  begun ; 
The  desert  beauty  of  your  distant  plains 

Proclaim  how  much  has  yet  been  left  undone. 

Will  noc  your  giant  columns  yet  behold 

The  world's  old  age,  enlightened,  calm,  and  free ; 

More  glorious  than  the  glories  known  of  old — 
The  spirit's  placid  rule  o'er  land  and  sea. 

All  that  the  past  has  taught  is  not  in  vain — 
Wisdom  is  garnered  up  from  centuries  gone ; 

Love,  Hope,  and  Mind  prepare  a  nobler  reign 
Than  ye  have  known — Cedars  of  Lebanon ? 


(539) 


DEATH   AND  THE  YOUTH. 

•*  Not  yet— the  flowers  are  in  my  path, 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky  ; 
Not  yet — my  heart  is  full  of  hope— 

I  cannot  bear  to  die. 

Not  yet — I  never  knew  till  now 
How  precious  life  could  be ; 

My  heart  is  full  of  love— O  Death! 
I  cannot  come  with  thee  !  " 

But  Love  and  Hope,  enchanted  twa*n, 
Passed  in  their  falsehood  by  ; 

Death  came  again  and  then  he  said — 
"  I'm  ready  now  to  die ! " 


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